


And I'm calling for my mother as I pull the pillars down

by dwellingondreams



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Butterfly Effect, Canon Divergence - Robert's Rebellion, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Consensual Underage Sex, Cousin Incest, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Female-Centric, First Time, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Marriage, Married Sex, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Underage, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2018-11-15 01:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11220315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwellingondreams/pseuds/dwellingondreams
Summary: Elia Martell becomes the Lady of Casterly Rock due to her mother's machinations. Robarra Baratheon becomes a princess due to the Mad King's obsession with finding a bride of Targaryen blood. The seeds of rebellion are planted all the same.





	1. The Dornish Whore

“Are you frightened, sister?” 

The massive rock cast a long shadow over the harbor and the docks. Elia had to shield her eyes from the pale winter sun to even make out the mammoth natural structure. The people of Lannisport scurried about in its shadow as if it were not there at all, but Elia was transfixed by it.

“No,” she finally said with a half-smile. “Brother.” 

She nudged Oberyn with her elbow, who snickered. “They say they still keep the old lord’s lions there, in the dungeons. Mayhaps we’ll get to see one.”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Elia scoffed gently, and ignored her younger brother’s smirk.

In Starfall there had been talk of Oberyn being betrothed to Ashara Dayne, who was only eleven but already on her way to becoming a great beauty, that much was clear, but there had been no real affection between the two- Ashara was sweet and clever and Elia would have liked her as a goodsister, but she was too quiet for Oberyn, Elia thought, too reserved, and besides, she couldn’t picture Oberyn ever being wed to anyone, be they quiet and meek or as wild as him.

In the Arbor Elia had been introduced to Paxter Redwyne, but thought him boring and too shy around maids- besides, he was only thirteen, and she was sixteen now, a woman grown. And when Oberyn had mocked Paxter’s ‘peach fuzz’ of orange hair she had not been able to restrain her giggles.

Then there had been Oldtown, and with it Baelor Hightower, whom Elia had been infatuated with for most of the moon’s turn that they had stayed there, until Oberyn had nicknamed him Baelor Breakwind after he passed wind in front of them and she couldn’t look at the boy straight without bursting into laughter.

The Shield Islands had offered their young lords and ladies as well, but Mother had thought most of the houses there too insignificant to consider seriously. Their last stop the month before had been at Crakehall, but Elia had found Roland Crakehall too dour and Oberyn had amused himself by jumping into bed with half the maids there and perhaps a quarter of the young men.

But Casterly Rock and the Lannisters- now they were something different. Mother’s old dear friend Lady Joanna had died five months earlier, and the children of her and her widower, Lord Tywin, were small still- twins who were seven and an infant dwarf. 

Elia was not sure what her Mother was playing at, bringing them here- even if she were to secure a betrothal between her and Lord Tywin’s son, the it would be years before the boy could be wed to her, and the same went for Oberyn and his daughter.

She had not lied. Casterly Rock, for all its intimidating grandeur, did not frighten her. She found it akin to a labyrinth of sorts, and enjoyed wandering through its cavernous bowels and onto its many balconies much more than spending time with its inhabitants. 

Tywin Lannister extended the bare minimum of the required courtesies towards guests, and while Elia understood that the man must still be bereaved over the loss of his beloved wife, whom it was said had been the only one to coax genuine smiles and laughter out of the cold man, she could not understand his coldness towards his own children. 

Mother was the ruling Princess of Dorne and often busy, but she and Father had still always made time for their children, been freely affectionate with them. Perhaps it was a Dornish tradition, to be more openly loving towards one’s own children, and not to simply believe they ought to be seen and not heard, but the man ignored the two little twins and pretended as if the babe didn’t exist.

Granted, Cersei and Jaime Lannister were not angels- they could both be sweet enough when they liked, but they could be petty and spiteful little beasts as well, although their bark- or perhaps their roar, she thought in amusement- was still worse than their bite. 

Oberyn got along well enough with Jaime, although there were eight years between them, but Cersei seemed infuriated at any attention her brother directed towards anyone other than her.

And the way their younger brother was treated- 

“Lady Cersei, please, go play-,”

“He’s mine,” the little girl retorted sharply, chin raised and tone aping that of a great lady, not a child. “And you’re just a milk cow, you can’t tell me what to do. Be quiet or I’ll have my father cut your tongue out. A cow doesn’t need a tongue, only udders.”

The nurse maid, who couldn’t have been any older than Elia, paled, although she looked none too pleased about being threatened by someone a decade her junior, and bustled out in a huff.

Jaime snickered somewhat nervously, and Elia exchanged a glance with her brother, who shrugged. “Let’s see this ‘monster’, then.”

Tyrion Lannister was not a deformed monster. He looked like any other infant, albeit smaller, with mismatched eyes and legs much shorter than normal. He was almost cute, in a way, Elia thought, and smiled softly, reaching a finger out to stroke the infant’s head while Oberyn laughed.

“They said he had a tail and fangs,” he snorted. “He’s just a baby.”

“He killed my mother,” Cersei snapped, and undid the swaddling clothes around the sleepy infant, grabbing his small penis and pinching down, hard. The babe began to shriek, and Elia stepped back in shock. 

“Leave him be,” Jaime said suddenly, “You’re hurting him.”

The little girl let go, and Elia stepped forward to pick up the sobbing infant, staring at her. “What’s wrong with you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” the blonde girl insisted defiantly. “Everyone says he’s like to die soon. He shouldn’t even have lived this long.”

“He looks healthy enough to me,” Oberyn observed. “So long as you don’t pull his cock off one of these days.”

“He didn’t kill your lady mother,” Elia said. “The birth may have, but that could have happened with any birth. You and your brother stood more of a chance of killing a woman in the birthing bed than him.”

Cersei’s pretty green eyes darkened, but Elia returned the girl’s glower calmly. 

“What would you know?” the girl finally sneered. “You’re just some Dornish whore.”

Jaime shifted uneasily. “Cersei-,”

Oberyn crouched down to the young girl’s level. “Call my sister a whore again,” he said very quietly, “And you’ll see what it’s like to go without a tongue first-hand, since you seem fond of the idea.”

Cersei blanched and slapped him, Oberyn caught her by a skinny wrist, squeezed it sharply, and laughed, and Jaime trailed after her in shock when she ran out of the room screaming for her Uncle Kevan.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Elia said, laying Tyrion back down in his cradle and swaddling him once more. His tears gone, the babe cooed happily at her and she cooed back before turning to her impulsive younger brother. “She’ll go to Lord Tywin, and he doesn’t seem the type of man to tolerate his daughter being threatened.”

“Their entire family threatens people the way beggars ask for bread,” Oberyn rolled his eyes. “They should be used to it by now. Besides, the man ignores his daughter and heir nearly as much as he does this one, except he can’t lock them away in a room with a wet maid.”

“Mother wants you to marry Cersei, or me little Jaime-,”

“And we both know how slim the chances of that happening are,” Oberyn scoffed. “Even if her father was open to it- which we all know he isn’t- I wouldn’t marry that little bitch if it was her or a pox-ridden whore. At least the whore wouldn’t try to castrate me in my sleep.”

“Oberyn,” Elia hissed in disgust, but smirked a little, and shook her head. “Well, I don’t think we’ll be staying long, either way.”

“Good,” he retorted. “Walking around this place is like being shut up in some old tomb. Gods, I know they’re in mourning, but even the serving girls are dour. You know, just last night I-,”

Elia was right. In contrast to their much longer stays at the other keeps, their stay at Casterly Rock was not much longer than a fortnight. However, much to their surprise, they did leave with a betrothal, just not one either had been expecting.

“Mother,” Elia said when she was informed of it. “Are you mad?”

“Sweet girl-,”

“I will not marry Lady Joanna’s widower,” she hissed, scandalized at the thought of it. “Why would he even consider such a thing? Why would you?”

“Because the position of Lady of Casterly Rock and wife of the Warden of the West is nothing to scoff at,” her mother snapped back. “And the man must marry again- how would it look, for him to remain unmarried? He’s barely past thirty years, and in good health-,”

“Mother, I am sixteen!”

“Sixteen and wise as a woman twice that age,” Mother replied in a slightly softer tone, and cupped Elia’s chin with her hand. “You are a clever, lovely girl, Elia, even if you do not see it.”

Elia did not. She did not think herself ugly, but she’d been born too early and always been small and skinny for it, with dark eyes too big for her face and somewhat limp hair that hung in unruly waves around her oval-shaped, olive toned face. 

Oberyn was handsome, everyone could see that, and so was their older brother Doran, but she was plain, weak little Elia, who’d never been able to run about and play wildly with the other children, always sheltered away for fear of her taking ill or being injured.

“And you need not worry about giving the man heirs- he has two sons already. There would be no fear of you losing your life in the birthing bed like his first wife.”

“His first wife is barely in her grave,” Elia snapped. “Mother, Lady Joanna was your friend-,”

“Joanna Lannister would not want to see the downfall of her house due to her husband’s grief and endless pride,” Mother replied sharply. “Tywin Lannister is going to ruin himself and those children if he continues like this- mind you, the man is perfectly capable of ruling through fear, after what he did to the Reynes- but even the most intimidating man needs a softer touch at times.”

“Joanna was that for him. And now look at his household! Half of them are too terrified to so much as look at their lord the wrong way, and the other half bends to the whims of two wayward children who already think themselves the next lord and lady of the place. It’s unseemly. And the disgraceful way the little dwarf is treated- halfman or not, the child is a Lannister, and he’s tucked away out of sight like a greyscale case.”

Elia looked at her incredulously. “And you expect me to marry him and straighten this all out? Why would he listen to a thing I have to say?”

“He won’t. Your job is to make him listen, Elia. And of all the eligible maidens who will be put forth to him as potential second wives, you are cunning enough to do it.”

“A viper may strike at a lion and poison it,” Elia reasoned darkly, “But a poisoned lion can still kill the viper with a single swipe of his paw.”

“There’s my wise girl,” Mother smiled. “But perhaps the viper will not have to strike at the lion at all.”


	2. The Storm Princess

“But I don’t want to marry Cousin Rhaegar!” 

Robarra Baratheon, in her ten years of life, was generally used to getting her way. She was her parents’ eldest child and only daughter, and although she would never inherit Storm’s End, she had grown up expecting some sort of grand fate for herself. A fate that did not involve marrying her odd older cousin and becoming a Targaryen. 

“I’m going to marry Ned Stark,” she proclaimed defiantly.

Robarra had met Eddard Stark through her younger brother Stannis, who was being fostered with him by Lord Arryn at the Eyrie. Although the two had only met a few times, Robarra fancied herself half in love with the boy, and was certain he liked her as well, a fact which usually caused Stannis to grit his teeth and proclaim that once again, she was ruining everything.

Stannis and her were too close in age and too different in temperament to ever have a chance of getting along, but they were fiercely devoted to each other when they were not fighting, and even he thought it was ridiculous that she had to marry the prince just because he had no sisters and their grandmother had been a Targaryen. 

“Would that you could,” Steffon Baratheon replied tiredly- he had looked tired since returning with Mother from his visit to King’s Landing, where everyone said the King was mad with grief over the death of little Prince Aegon, the latest child of the Queen’s to never see a first name day. “But he is the King, sweetling, and I cannot deny him this.”

“Yes, you can!” Robarra snapped. “Tell him I don’t want to marry my second cousin and that he should find his son some other girl to be his wife. Like Cersei Lannister- everyone says Lord Tywin wants his daughter to marry Rhaegar.” She stood up from her seat in her father’s lavishly decorated solar and stormed away a few paces, arms folded over her chest, a scowl on her face, avoiding the man’s pained gaze.

“Cersei Lannister, for all the wealth and power her family holds, is not a Targaryen,” her father pointed out with a frown, slowly rising as well. “I know this is difficult to accept-,”

“I’m not a Targaryen either! I’m a Baratheon, and I’m going to be a Stark.”

“Lord Stark will not openly defy the King in such a way-,” he sighed, coming around the desk towards her. “Robarra, what you feel for young Eddard Stark is a little girl’s infatuation. I am sure he will always be dear to you, but you cannot marry him. You are promised to Rhaegar now.”

“What if the Queen has a daughter?” she demanded, looking at Steffon anxiously. “Then Rhaegar could just marry his sister like everyone else in his stupid family!”

“Sweetling, the Queen is weak and in poor health from so many pregnancies, and even if she were to birth a healthy girl, the child would be too young to wed Prince Rhaegar. There is only four years between the two of you, and the Prince will be a good man. He may be…,” now her father struggled to find the right words-

“A bit pensive, but that is to be expected, given his upbringing. He has the weight of the world on his shoulders, knowing he will one day be King. And you will be Queen, Robarra!” Steffon clapped his hands on her shoulders. “Come now, that is nothing to scoff at.”

“I don’t want to be his queen,” Robarra seethed. “I don’t even look like a Targaryen.” 

Neither did Father, not really, although his vivid dark blue eyes did look a bit violet-tinged in the right light. The Baratheon looks always seemed to triumph in the end- Robarra was tall for a girl of ten, and looked older than her age. Her hair was a wild mass of black curls and her eyes bright blue and she was certainly not skinny, but not quite plump either- solid might be a better word for it, she supposed, and Septa said she would likely inherit her mother’s birthing hips, so that she need not fear death in the birthing bed.

Robarra had little interest in the idea of birthing Rhaegar Targaryen’s children. She had interest in hunting with Stannis and Ned Stark when they visited Storm’s End, in riding out across the Stormlands with Father, and in visiting Estermont with her mother once this winter was over, to leap off cliffs and swim and run out in the rain like an urchin, rather than a lady.

Instead she would go to King’s Landing with Father, ostensibly as a companion to the frail Queen, but more so the King could judge her worth as a bride for his son, and so Rhaegar could court her or whatever it was that one was supposed to do. 

She did kiss Ned Stark before she left- Robarra did not bother asking him to kiss her, as he would have probably refused, citing her honor or his honor or some other Stark sort of nonsense, so instead she impulsively leaned over and the caught the corner of his mouth with her own, and grinned at his brilliant crimson flush.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Barra,” he muttered, staring down at his feet. “It’s… it’s not-,”

“I wanted you to be my very first kiss,” she said. “Not him. You did like it, didn’t you?”

“That’s not-,”

“Good,” she said with no small amount of satisfaction. “I won’t write you, because I’ll never have anything nice to say, but you will think of me, Ned?”

“I… yes,” he finally sighed, and when she squeezed his hand did not squeeze back but just held her hand in his for a moment, and that was enough. 

“When my cousin is dead, I will be Queen and do whatever I like,” she vowed. “I’ll bring you to court, and you can be my consort.”

He laughed at her then, this lanky boy with dark hair and soft gray eyes and his somber looks and straight back, and Robarra, for all her young age and hotheadedness, felt a strange sort of loss settle over her like a wet cloak. Perhaps Father was right, and it was just a childish sort of love, but even if that was true, there was something sharp and pure and achingly cold about it.

Still, she wasn’t one to mope about, and tried her best to be defiantly chipper upon her arrival to court, as winter slowly drew to a close. She detested King’s Landing, loathed the King upon laying eyes on him, and was torn between pity and kinship with Queen Rhaella, whom everyone knew had never loved her cruel brother and who was pregnant yet again, confined to Maegor’s Holdfast with two septas to ‘ensure her fidelity to the King’. 

Rhaegar Targaryen was beautiful, and for this Robarra hated him. If he had been lacking in any way physically she thought she might have been able to put her resentment aside. His silver hair hung down past his shoulders and his eyes were a vivid indigo and his face was so earnest at times he seemed almost girlish. He was a quiet, bookish sort of boy, which reminded her of Stannis in a way, although not nearly as stiff and harsh as her younger brother.

By all rights she should have loved Rhaegar at first sight- he was gentle and kind, strong and compassionate, courteous and clever, every maiden’s dream. But she did not. It wasn’t even that they were related- second cousins got married often enough, and they looked nothing alike and had not grown up together, either. He was not the type of man she envisioned when she thought of marriage. Of course, she thought of honorable Ned- but even any other sort of man would have been preferable. Someone not so bloody nice. 

At least he could fight well, and never tried to stop her from practicing her archery or riding out with him- Robarra would have happily wielded a sword if she were able, but had never gotten past wooden practice swords with Stannis, who had always complained about how she should be off sewing or playing the high harp. Robarra had no patience for sewing, but she did love to dance and sing, even if Septa always scolded her for being a bit too bawdy about it.

She watched somewhat sullenly as perfect Rhaegar carefully notched yet another arrow and let it fly, striking the dummy set up square in the neck. 

“The gorget would have saved him, in battle,” she commented somewhat peevishly- at first she had thought she could simply annoy the prince into convincing his father to call the whole thing off, but Rhaegar bore her fits of temper and glowers with all the patience of a septon, which only infuriated her more. He acted as if she were simply a temporary inconvenience that would soon be remedied.

“Of course,” he said calmly. “Would you like to try now, my lady?”

“I told you to call me Robarra.” She was not one for polite courtesies herself- Robarra saw no point in ending every sentence with ‘my prince’ when she would soon be a princess herself.

He simply smiled beatifically, and far too maturely for a boy of fourteen, as she took aim. Her arrow missed and she bit down on her lower lip in frustration. 

“Take more time to focus,” he encouraged quietly, “And you’ll improve your aim.”

“I don’t need help from a green boy who spends all his time locked away in his room reading or playing the stupid harp!” she snapped, and then quieted, for even she’d never been that brusque with the prince before, and his face was so difficult to read that in a way it frightened her.

“I apologize,” he finally said, staring at her all the same, “If I have made you feel unwanted here, Robarra.”

She struggled not to shift uncomfortably on the saddle, and stared down at her mount. “I- You haven’t. That was insolent of me. I’m sorry, Your Grace.” It felt like trying to swallow rocks.

He sighed a little. “I don’t wish to see you unhappy. But certain things are beyond our control.”

He seemed as though he were speaking of more than just their betrothal.

Robarra fought the angry flush in her cheeks. “I’m not used to court life. I- I miss my home.”

“After we marry, we will have our household on Dragonstone, and that is not so far from Storm’s End,” he said encouragingly. “You may host your family whenever you like then.”

But I’ll still have to live with you and be your wife and have your babes, she thought darkly, but nodded. 

She dined with her future goodmother often enough- there were little other invitations directed at someone so young, and Robarra usually found herself eating alone with her father if no one in the royal family requested her presence. 

The queen was unmarked physically- the king did not lay hands on her when she was with child, Robarra knew that, and believed- or wanted to believe- that she would not suffer the same humiliation and pain when she and Rhaegar were married. She could not picture him striking anyone out of anger or callousness. But he was a boy still, and when they married when she was sixteen and he twenty he would be a man. 

The King had wanted them wed as soon as she flowered, and Robarra counted herself lucky she had not yet, but her father had insisted they wait, and she was glad of it- she had no desire to be wedded and bedded at twelve or thirteen.

“I trust Rhaegar has treated you kindly,” Queen Rhaella said softly- she always spoke very softly- as she cut into her meat ever so slowly. 

Robarra often felt like a pig eating with the woman, who was painfully slender even while with child. She forced herself to chew methodically and swallow. “Yes, Your Grace.”

The woman smiled and put a cool, pale hand on Robarra’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I hope that in time you might see me as another mother of sorts. Your grandmother was my aunt, and your father and I were dear friends when we were young.”

I already have a mother, and she’s ruling the Stormlands for my father, who would never strike her or accuse her of being unfaithful or keep her locked away like a prisoner, Robarra thought, but nodded. “You… you’ve been very kind to me, Your Grace.”

The King had been less so. She’d felt frightened and mortified when he’d asked her father if she ‘was still untouched- this one has Argella’s look to her’. Every Baratheon and every Targaryen knew of Argella the Storm Queen and how she’d been betrayed by her people and brought to a Targaryen bastard naked and bound in chains. 

Father had been furious afterwards, and Robarra had been angry as well, but there was little to be done. She did not like the way her strong father’s shoulders were always slightly bowed after an interaction with his cousin. It brought shame to them both. She understood now why Stannis had never been permitted to come to court as a companion to the prince. Steffon Baratheon wanted his family as separated from his unstable royal cousins as possible.

“I think you will come to love Dragonstone,” the woman continued. 

Rhaella Targaryen was not beautiful, but she was pretty in a soft, delicate way, with skin like porcelain and the same haunting indigo eyes as her son. Like her husband, she looked older than her twenty nine years, and her smiles were always sad. It unnerved Robarra- was this to be her future? Everyone knew the queen had never loved her brother-husband, and had only been repaid in dead babes and blood and bruises. 

“There is a sort of magic to the place, grim as it can be.”

Robarra knew of Dragonstone, dark and foreboding and full of gargoyles and stone dragons, and doubted she would ever consider it anything akin to a home. 

The queen’s delicate hand came to rest on her midsection as she leaned back slightly in her ornate seat, and Robarra followed her gaze down. “I… I will pray for the babe and you, Your Grace,” she offered, although she’d never had much more than a passive interest in her faith and regularly rushed through her prayers, to the dismay of her septa. 

“That’s very sweet of you,” Rhaella said with that same sad, resigned smile, “I am certain this one will grow and thrive.”

Robarra did not think she even believed herself.


	3. The Westerman's Bride

When Elia returned to Casterly Rock, it was nearly a year later. Her father’s health was failing rapidly- he had always been a somewhat frail man, and Elia knew she had inherited his weakness of health- and she so desperately wanted him to see her married, even if it was to as cold a man as Tywin Lannister. 

Her wedding party was small- as the groom to be was a widower, the wedding would be fairly simple and modest, out of respect for the deceased Lady Joanna, and Elia was grateful that her mother had not argued with her betrothed on that. She was accompanied by her parents, her brothers, her uncle Lewyn, and her brother Doran’s new wife, Mellario, as well as perhaps thirty servants and handmaidens and fifty men at arms.

Elia was seventeen now, a woman in truth, but she did not feel like a woman. In Dorne, women were treated far better than they were in Westeros- it was why Mother ruled, and not her younger brother. Elia would not see the same treatment, and neither would her daughters, although she doubted she would bear Tywin Lannister any children. 

She was not so naive to think he would not lie with her- proud and grieving the man might be, but he was still a man, and she was young and pretty, although she doubted she would ever match his dead wife’s beauty. But she did not think a man like him would be keen on Dornish looking Lannisters, and for that she was relieved, although part of her did deeply wish to be a mother.

In Dorne brides did not typically wear white, as they did in Westeros, but out of respect for her husband’s traditions Elia had insisted on an ivory gown, which, although clearly Dornish in style, was very modest, aside from the slit up the front, revealing her ankles and ribbon-sandaled feet, and the slight swell of her breasts at the bodice, where a ruby and gold necklace rested, an early wedding gift.

He was generous enough, she decided then, however begrudging the generosity might be. Her dark hair was down and free, and long earrings, twin suns, hung from her ears. The audience at the sept, the Westerosi members of it, at least, gawked and muttered, but Elia refused to look back at them, only focused on her grip on her father’s slightly trembling arm. She could feel her mother’s proud gaze on her, even from a distance, and wished she felt as defiantly proud, so self-assured and unapologetic.

Tywin Lannister worn a golden doublet, his son and daughter off to the side behind him in matching outfits. Cersei Lannister was just as lovely at eight as she had been at seven, and Jaime Lannister was a handsome young boy, but the girl’s pretty face was twisted up in something like a snarl, and the boy’s eyes were pained behind his bright grin. The dwarf was nowhere to be seen.

She looked at her husband curiously, barely listening to the septon. Tywin Lannister was a handsome, clean-shaven man who had not yet started to bald, although she supposed his hair was likely a bit thinner than it had once been. He was tall and strong and in an excellent health, and his eyes shone like dark green pools in his lined face. He looked at her not with disgust or dismay or disdain, but passive reproach, as if she’d already done something he disapproved of.

Elia, for however uncertain or shy she might be, was not used to asking for anyone’s approval. When they were declared man and wife, lord and lady of Casterly Rock, she kissed him before he could kiss her, because he looked as though he intended to pause and make her wait, as if to prove to everyone watching that she would never match up to Joanna.

“You forget yourself,” he murmured coldly in her ear as they departed the sept and walked out into a beautiful sunset, the sky crimson and gold and orange above them.

“No, husband,” Elia said calmly, looking straight ahead with a beatific smile, for Doran and Oberyn were watching them with matching frowns. “I remember exactly who and what I am.”

The feast was fine but not lavish, and the dancing and singing suitably muted, although ‘The Dornishman’s Wife’ and ‘The Rains of Castamere’ were played so many times Elia thought she might scream by the end of it all.

She danced with Doran first, who gracefully twirled her and worried after her incessantly, no matter how much she assured him she was happy, that she had desired this match.

“That man,” he told her, “Can be as cruel as any scorpion’s kiss, Elia. You would do well not to forget what he’s done.”

“What he did,” Elia said, “Was for his family, and while I cannot like it, I can respect it.”

“The little lost lord Tarbeck,” Doran reminded her sharply, “They say the boy was thrown down a well, and your lord commanded that slaughter at the age of nineteen, barely any older than you are now. That was not a boy’s impulsive bloodlust in the heat of battle. That was a man’s calculation.”

“I will remember,” Elia promised him, for what else could she say, and then she was dancing with Oberyn.

“If he ever so much as lays a finger on you, all you need do is write me or Mother, and we will come and grind this rock to dust, sister,” Oberyn grinned as if he was jesting, but Elia heard the truth behind the laughter.

“Uncle Lewyn will stay on with me as my sworn shield,” she reminded him. “I would not worry so, when there is drinking to be done and wenches to be had, little brother.”

He arched an eyebrow and laughed. “You know me too well.”

She only danced with her husband twice. Once when they led the night’s dancing at the beginning of the feast, and once again before the bedding was called for. He said nothing, and Elia preferred to observe the faces around them, trying to recall who was a member of what house, who she would request as her ladies, rather than attempt to drag him into polite conversation. He was a good dancer. Not as graceful as Doran or quick on his feet as Oberyn, but they matched each other’s pace well.

The bedding was not commonly practiced in Dorne, where it was accepted that most grooms and brides had already lain with one another before the marriage, or with others before they were even betrothed, but Elia was not frightened when a few of the more boisterous lords shouted for it, although it was considerably more restrained than normal, as most of the ladies seemed hesitant to handle Lord Tywin too roughly, and Uncle Lewyn got to her and scooped her up in his arms like a babe before anyone else could so much as lay a hand on her. 

“Don’t be frightened, Lia,” he assured her as they reached the door of the chambers she and her husband would share. 

“I’m not,” she promised him, although she felt as though she had promising people that she was not frightened of her husband all evening, and kissed him on the cheek as he gently set her down. 

She sat down on the edge of the bed, looking at the tapestries on the wall and listening to the crackle of the fire in the hearth, until the door opened once more and Tywin Lannister entered alone, having apparently shaken off his escort of women on the way there. He looked at her, closed the door behind himself, and approached.

Elia saw from the look on his face that he did not intend to speak with her at all, but she tried regardless, getting to her feet slowly. “I enjoyed the feast very much. I would like to thank the cooks and the servants tomorrow after we break our fast-,”

He turned her around, not very gently, but not very roughly either, and began to unbutton the back of her dress. Dornish women normally did not wear corsets or elaborate, heavy smallclothes, and so within a matter of moments she was naked, aside from the veil still on her head. 

“And I would like to meet with the other ladies of the Westerlands here, to invite some of them to stay on with me as my-,” She was resisting the urge to cover herself as he pulled the veil from her head, and put her hands on his shoulders as he unlaced his breeches. Then she saw how he intended to do this, with her completely nude and him still half-dressed, as if she were a whore at a tavern, and drew back.

He mistook it for virginal fear. “You’re a maiden still?” he asked coldly, eyes narrowed.

“I am your wife,” she retorted just as icily, “And have never lain with anyone but you. You will give me the respect I am owed. Come to bed, Tywin.”

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, and a look of raw pain flickered in his eyes, if only for a moment.

“I am your wife,” she repeated coldly. “I will call you ‘my lord’ in front of the household and our peers, as that is your due, but in our bedchamber I will use your name.”

“I am your husband,” he snapped, “And you will do as you are told-,”

Elia wanted to slap him, but kissed him roughly instead, dragging him, or as much as he let himself be dragged, onto the bed beside her, removing his doublet and tunic with nimble fingers.

When it was over Elia was not happy, not with the animosity still simmering between them, but she was satisfied with the knowledge that he had bedded her as his wife, not a whore. Despite his obvious anger, he had avoided impregnating her to the best of his ability, and while there was blood on the sheets, she acknowledged that he could have treated her far more harshly.

Over the next few months Elia assembled her household the way some might assemble an army. Tywin returned to King’s Landing three weeks after the wedding, leaving Elia to get accustomed to her new home. Primary among her initial allies was Tywin’s younger brother, Kevan, and his wife, Dorna. 

Kevan was a stout, short man of thirty, with the same golden hair and green eyes as his elder brother. There was a softness to his eyes, however, that Tywin lacked, and Elia liked him immediately. Kevan was sensible and firm, and above all, fair in all his dealings. Dorna was even younger than Elia, a sweet, soft-spoken girl of sixteen, with pale blonde hair and warm brown eyes on a thin frame. She was very devout and adored her needlework and gardens, but clever enough, with a good head for numbers. 

Then there was Genna Lannister, her husband’s sister. For the first month Elia remained locked in a mutually distrustful dance with the woman, who was twenty nine, with a weak-willed Frey husband and a young son, and had been the unofficial lady of the Rock since Joanna’s death. 

Genna seemed to warm to her, however, and from then on the two were quite close, although they were opposite in appearance - Genna was tall and shapely, with thick blonde curls, in contrast to small, slight, dark-haired and olive-skinned Elia. They shared an equal amount of shrewdness, however, and Elia was pleased that Genna approved of the changes she was making.

And then there were Tywin’s two other brothers, Tygett and Gerion. Tygett was short-tempered and quick to take offense, but he was a massive man of twenty six and an excellent fighter, and Elia felt confident that he would protect his own, however hard feelings might be between him and Tywin. She doubted growing up as the younger brother of the Lion of the Rock had been very easy. 

Gerion reminded her very much of Oberyn; he was only nineteen and quick to laugh, fearing no one and able to mock anyone he crossed paths with. She and Gerion got along very well, but she was careful to keep some distance between them, for fear of rumors that Tywin’s new young bride favored his youngest brother over him. She didn’t fear her husband, but she understood that when Tywin Lannister felt threatened he was capable of anything.

And so her ladies generally consisted of Dorna, Genna, and young Ashara Dayne, sent to be Elia’s companion all the way from Starfall. She was surprised, for the Daynes rarely traveled in general, aside from Ser Arthur, but also suspected Ashara had been tasked by Mother to keep the Martells appraised of the going-ons at the Rock. She could have been offended that her family suspected she might gloss things over for the sake of keeping the peace, but Ashara was a sweet girl and Elia did not feel quite so homesick with another Dornishwoman around.

Then there was the matter of the household. It was run efficiently. The accounts were in excellent order. The servants did exactly as they were bid. The air was so thick with a general aura of unease and misery Elia thought she might choke on it. She personally met with a good deal of the servants, assuring them that while she expected them to do their jobs, she would not be a harsh mistress so long as they were loyal to her and their lord. 

She informed Maester Creylen and the Septa assigned to Casterly Rock, a woman named Kendra, that the twins would be expected to be in their (separate) lessons, and that if they were disobedient they had full authority to punish them. Cersei and Jaime regularly disappeared for hours during the day, and while it was likely just to play and skulk about, Elia could hardly have them running around while she was oblivious to it.

She had Tyrion, who was one and running about on his stubby legs, moved to more pleasant rooms closer to the rest of the family, and placed a guard at his door, lest Cersei get any ideas again about harming the child. Elia fully expected a fight over this when Tywin returned, but she would not sit idly by while he mistreated his own son. The toddler seemed to adore her, babbling her name, although she was quick to avoid him calling her ‘Mama’ or anything like that- Tywin might have a stroke if he ever overheard it.

Even Jaime seemed fond of her, although he avoided her like the plague whenever his twin was around. Elia had tried to talk to the young girl alone several times, but it was like trying to reason with a riled housecat. Cersei couldn’t go more than a few sentences without insulting Elia, the Martells, and Dorne in general, and Elia, at seventeen, did not have the patience to be lambasted by a little girl. She settled for ensuring that Cersei minded her manners, at least in public, and was not always secreted away with Jaime.

“They are very close,” Genna agreed with her, with a small frown. “It’s to be expected, given Joanna’s death, but even before that they were inseparable.”

“I was always very close with Oberyn,” Elia recounted, bouncing a giggling Tyrion on her lap. “We were mistaken for twins as little children all the time. But even then… they barely speak to anyone but each other, Genna.”

“I will speak to Tywin about sending Jaime to foster, perhaps with the Marbrands,” Genna suggested. “He is good friends with their son Addam, and Ashemark is only a fortnight’s ride from here. But better I put it to him than you. He may see it as you trying to send his heir away.”

Elia nodded grimly, and in the meanwhile asked Ashara, dark-haired and violet-eyed and all of twelve, to spend time around the two elder Lannister children when she could. Perhaps the twins only spoke to each other, but she had seen Jaime grow red-faced and unusually shy around the older girl, when his sister was not paying attention.


	4. The Prince's Dream

Robarra woke up in the early hours of the morning to the frenzied sound of the bells ringing out and servants and men at arms rushing down the corridor outside the rooms she shared with her father. She blinked blearily as she stumbled out of bed, pulling on a cloak around her night shift as she peered out the window. 

The sky was still dark, but there was a paler tinge to it that suggested that soon the sun would start to rise. The bells were so loud that they seemed to echo through the entire keep, making the room itself vibrate, but the bells were only rung at a birth, a death, or a wedding.

For a split second she wildly thought that perhaps the king was dead, and that if that was the case, then she’d become a Septa and praise the Seven every day, because she wouldn’t have to stay here anymore, wouldn’t have to marry the prince-

“Robarra!” Her father was half-dressed and grim-faced, still pulling on his boots as he burst into the room. “Stay here,” he said firmly, “And do not go anywhere until I come back to get you.”

“Who’s died?” she demanded, scowling at the thought of being stuck in their chambers- what danger could a dead man pose to her?

“The little prince,” he said very quietly, his face crumpling somewhat, and Robarra gasped, shaking her head.

“No- he’s healthy, Father, he was fine-,”

Prince Jaehaerys had been barely five months old, and she had never been the sort of girl to coo over infants, but she had taken a liking to him, had held him and sang to him and despite her dislike of the Targaryens in general, had imagined herself teaching him how to ride when he was older, how her children might look to him as a favorite uncle…

And the king- now she understood why Father did not want her to leave their rooms. The king’s madness had seemed almost reversed these past several months, so thrilled was he to finally have a second child. He had been almost kind. 

“I know, sweetling,” Steffon said gently. “This- this sometimes happens with babes. The gods see fit to take them and we don’t know why. But the King is in a fury and the Queen is mad with grief herself, and he’s calling for the murderer’s head. Or heads.”

“But you said-,”

“From what the maesters say, the child simply stopped breathing in his sleep. What the king chooses to believe is another matter, and for the time being, he believes his son has been murdered by enemies of the Iron Throne.”

The tolling of the bells had finally started to die down, but Robarra’s ears were still ringing. She suddenly felt very ill, and sat down shakily on her bed as her father kissed her quickly on the forehead and smoothed back a few wayward black curls. “I must go; the court is being summoned. I will have a few handmaidens come sit with you so you are not alone.”

She didn’t want handmaidens- she wanted to go home, now more than ever. She undid the clasp of her cloak, gold velvet with an embroidered black stag, and tossed it away, lying back down on the bed as her chest seized up and she began to cry, a few stifled sobs for herself, for the queen, and for little Jaehaerys, her almost goodbrother.

Aerys’ rage was terrible. By dusk that day he’d had the infant prince’s wetnurse, a quiet young woman named Aina, put to the sword for the babe’s murder. Robarra had never seen the usually calm woman so much as raise her voice before, but as she was forced to her knees she screamed and screamed. 

“Your Grace, please, I loved the little prince! Please, Your Grace, I didn’t hurt him, I swear it by the gods!” 

She called for the queen as well, but Rhaella was locked away in her chambers, in the depths of a despair that could only be guessed at. 

“Don’t look, Barra,” her father told her quickly as the executioner raised the sword, but Robarra could not bring herself to ignore the screaming girl and the flash of the blade in the dying light. 

Aina died quickly. In the following fortnight, when the king decided that instead his mistress, a knight’s daughter named Gayle of perhaps eighteen, and her kin were responsible for the ‘murder’, it was not half as kind. The entire court seemed to hold its breath while the supposed truth of the matter was tortured out of them.

Robarra heard rumors that Gayle had been with the king’s child, and that she and her father had schemed to kill little Jaehaerys so her own son or daughter would be recognized in his place, but her father said not to put stock in such things, and that they should be glad that the accusations and executions were done with.

While the king fasted and prayed and promised to never stray from the queen again, Robarra celebrated her eleventh name day, and while she understood that her father dared not risk the king’s wrath by asking if he might take her home to see her mother and brother, and didn’t want to put the rest of his family at risk by bringing them to see her, was miserable anyways.

“We could easily have been accused of plotting the prince’s death ourselves,” Steffon told her sharply over yet another sullen dinner, while she picked at her stew. “I will not lie to you, Robarra. Aerys and I were as close as brothers in our youth, us two and Tywin Lannister-,”

“You were friends with Lord Tywin?” she repeated in disbelief, finding it hard to reconcile her loving father and the cold Hand as boyhood friends.

“Yes,” he said with a regretful look, “I was. We were all very different people then. But Aerys is not the boy I knew then, before… before he was crowned. He had a fearsome temper and was quick to take offense, but he was charming and generous to those he called friends, although very proud. Now he sees enemies everywhere, and perhaps he is right to- I would not wish the crown on anyone, least of all myself,” he sighed, pouring himself some more wine. 

“And we could easily be construed as enemies, daughter, family though we might be. I wish nothing more than that I could take you away from here, but so long as remain here, you and I must both walk on eggshells and attempt to keep our tempers in check and our thoughts to ourselves.”

“Rhaegar and Rhaella seem fond of you, and thank the gods for that, but they do not rule the Seven Kingdoms, and their fondness will not save you from the king’s wrath. I need you to understand that you must always be very careful here. After you wed the prince you will live on Dragonstone and I believe you will be safe there, but until that day…,” he sighed, his face looking older than usual in the shadows of the room.

“I promise, Father,” Robarra said more meekly than usual, both frightened and overwhelmed with love for the man, who’d always tried to shelter her from the harsh realities of the world, with little success. “I will be careful.”

“Good,” he breathed, and the discussion returned to the fine young black filly that had been chief among her presents, whom she’d named Elenei, for the first Storm Queen.

She first rode Elenei with Rhaegar several days later, the first occurrence in which either had been permitted to leave the Red Keep and ride out in the kingswood. Rhaegar had a magnificent, sleek pure white courser called Gaemon. They were accompanied by several ladies, none of whom Robarra was particularly close with, and the prince’s dearest companions, all squires; Myles Mooton, Richard Lonmouth, and Jon Connington.

Myles and Richard were loud, confident, and bold; she got along well with them. Jon was sullen and never quite met her eyes, as if the very sight of her irritated him, and so the two usually glared at each other whenever Rhaegar was not looking. 

She urged Elenei ahead with the boys, leaving the other girls in the dust, and narrowly avoided a low-hanging branch with a breathless laugh.

“You ride as well as any man, my lady,” Myles said with a slight smirk, pulling his mount up short as she let Elenei relax into a trot. 

“Better than you, certainly,” she retorted, and Richard hooted with laughter. 

“Your betrothed’s dragging your men through the mud, Rhaegar! Call her off, we’re only poor boys!”

“I thought you were ‘men’,” Robarra snorted, while Rhaegar, who had been in some deep discussion with Jon, glanced back at them with a faint smile.

“It’s hardly my place to tell the future queen what to say.”

A year earlier Robarra would have scowled at him for that, but while she did not love Rhaegar, she did hold some measure of affection for him now, although he still exasperated and vexed her most of the time, and she only rolled her eyes. “They are pleading for their future king to champion their cause; have mercy.”

He only shook his head, and peered back down the road at the ladies struggling to catch up. “Who we need have mercy on is your ladies.”

Myles and Richard raced back to see who could ‘rescue’ the young women first, and Jon reluctantly followed suit, but not before casting a reproachful look in Robarra’s direction, as if she had neglected her duties by riding up to join the men- and she supposed she had, but she was not about to do something just because Jon bloody Connington thought it best.

“I am glad to see you smiling again,” Rhaegar told her as they waited, sitting tall and regal in the saddle. Robarra was not a short girl, but even then he still towered over her.

“And I you,” she said with a small shrug. “You’re… not the most joyful even at the best of times, Rhaegar.”

He looked a little taken aback, but smiled dryly. “You may be right. Too lost in my own head, my mother would say.”

Robarra was beginning to understand why someone would wish to spend so much time sequestered away with books, growing up at the Mad King’s court. 

“Mayhaps it’s not always a bad thing. Better to think too much than not at all. My mother says I never think before I open my mouth, that’s my problem,” she laughed, although she was painfully aware that she was likely far from the sort of bride he’d want. She was not dainty or delicate, and so far from serene and graceful it was almost absurd. They were nearly polar opposites. 

“You always believe strongly in what comes out of your mouth,” he corrected. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, strength of belief. Belief is what helps us have hope for the future.”

She wondered if he was speaking of the gods, but she had not thought he was so devout- he was respectful, but far from another Baelor the Blessed. Perhaps he spoke of his own ascension, but sometimes Robarra doubted Rhaegar even wanted the throne. He seemed aware of the weight of responsibility that came with it, and while not reluctant, never came across as eager either. 

“Do you have hope for the future?” she asked bluntly, as the rest of the riders caught up with them. 

“I have hope,” Rhaegar said simply, with one of his small, sad smiles, so akin to one of his mother’s that it unnerved her. But the day was young and the spring sun was shining high above them, and so she rode on down the dusty road.


	5. The She-Snake

“You wish to hold a tourney in honor of the newborn prince?” Elia repeated, dark brows arching in surprise as she plaited her thick hair. Having been married for nearly two years now, it had become common practice for serious discussions between the husband and wife to be held in their bedchamber, rather than the solar, and often in the early hours of the morning, when the sky was just beginning to lighten outside and the Rock started to glow. 

Tywin had been none too pleased with the changes Elia had enforced on the household at first, but with further persuasion from Genna (whom Elia could admit knew her husband far better than she might ever), he at least agreed on the matter of the twins. Jaime was being fostered at Ashemark, and while Cersei had been in a fury that Elia had not thought a girl that young could even manifest, but she had eventually seemed to calm somewhat, which had shocked most of the household, but not Elia, for the following had taken place a fortnight after Jaime had left with the Marbrands:

“Cersei, open the door,” Elia said sharply, knocking on the thick wood crisply.

“GO AWAY, YOU TREACHEROUS WHORE!” the girl, then going on nine, had howled in response.

Elia had not been sure whether to commend the child for knowing the term ‘treacherous’ or call on a guard to break the door down. Instead, she summoned up as much of Tywin as she could in her tone, and said coldly, “You will open this door for me immediately, or I will have this conversation with your father instead.”

To her surprise, after a few moments of utter silence, the door opened, revealing a tear-stained, red-faced Cersei, whose golden ringlets hung in disarray. She looked less like a little doll and more like a living, breathing child with genuine emotions in that state, and in spite of her dislike of the girl Elia felt for her as she stepped into the room, shutting the door carefully behind her.

“What do you want?” Cersei demanded angrily, rubbing at her eyes. “You already convinced Father to send Jaime away-,”

“Your father sent your brother to foster entirely of his own accord,” Elia replied coolly, although it was not strictly true- there was no sense in giving the child more to hold against her. “He does not do anything he does not want to. You know this.”

“Then what do you want with me?” Cersei snapped, turning away furiously. “I know you’ve had your little spy telling you things about us-,”

“Ashara considers you and your brother dear friends,” Elia said honestly, “And what I want to discuss with you had nothing to do with anything she’s said to me.”

The blonde girl looked torn between shock and disbelief at the idea that anyone other than her own twin would consider her a friend. Elia had not thought quiet, occasionally sly Ashara Dayne would have had anything in common with a temperamental little brat like Cersei Lannister, but they did seem to have reached some level of genuine amiability. She supposed Cersei had thought that her new friend had gone behind her and her brother’s backs to separate them.

“Then what is it?” Cersei asked in a more subdued, almost uneasy tone, and Elia sighed and sat down on the rumpled bed, smoothing the skirt of her blood-orange gown. 

“How long have you and Jaime been playing at kissing games?”

Cersei’s formerly flushed face drained of all color, and for a few seconds Elia was concerned the girl might collapse in a dead faint. Instead she wavered visibly, before spitting out, “We NEVER-,”

“I know, Cersei,” Elia said as gently as she could. “And not from Ashara- a servant came to me.”

She did not mention that it was a servant she had increased the pay of specifically to keep an eye on the twins.

“You can’t prove we-,”

“Your reaction said as much,” Elia interrupted her weak protests calmly. “There’s no point in denying it anymore. I’m not going to tell your father,” she continued firmly when Cersei looked like she was about to start up again, and the girl looked shocked for the third time in as many minutes.

“You’re- you’re not?” she asked a little shrilly. “But- but you hate me!”

“I don’t hate you,” Elia replied, “As much as you want me to, I don’t, Cersei. I cannot blame you for despising me. I know you loved your mother dearly, and I am young enough to be your sister, nevermind a stepmother. I don’t expect you to ever consider me your mother. But I need to know what has occurred between you and your brother, and when this started-,” she raised a hand for peace when the girl began to shake her head violently- “I do not think you disgusting or perverse for it. Just tell me the truth of it now.”

“Why should I?” Cersei demanded, although she still looked unnerved.

“Because if you don’t, I will be forced to go to Genna, if not your father. If he were to find out, it would-,” Elia bit her lip, “He would never be the same afterwards.”

Cersei seemed to swallow hard, green eyes flickering down to her bare feet before back up at her stepmother. “We’ve… always been like this, I suppose. We used to dress in each other’s clothes, and pretend to be each other, and sleep in the same bed-,”

Elia had dressed in her brothers’ tunics before, while playing games as a little girl, and slept all together in the same bed with them and her mother and father, and she had never had the urge to kiss either Doran or Oberyn, but she let the girl continue.

“And- and then one day we just… we thought it would be fun to see what it was like, to kiss someone, and- and- and then one day a servant saw and told Mother, and- and she moved our rooms and told us to never do it again or she’d have to tell Father but she didn’t love us the same anymore,” Cersei whispered harshly, “I know she didn’t, she couldn’t, she thought we were- we were wrong and twisted and then she died,” the rough whisper fractured into tearless sobs, “She died hating us. She didn’t want to live as our mother anymore.”

Elia saw now, that the hate the girl displayed towards her and Tyrion and most people had little to with them, and everything to do with her and Jaime. She didn’t think Tyrion had killed Lady Joanna in the birthing bed. She thought that she and Jaime had, that the woman had died of shame.

“Cersei-,” Elia dared not try to embrace the weeping, shaking girl, but she did lay a hand tentatively on her trembling shoulder, and it was not shaken off. “I promise you, your lady mother did not hate you. She may have been- she may not have liked it, and it may have frightened her, but she never would have hated you. Everyone speaks of how much she adored you and Jaime and your father.”

“But they don’t know!”

“She didn’t hate you,” Elia repeated in the same reassuring tone, the one her father would have used with her whenever she was ill and frightened as a child. He had passed in his sleep a month prior, and she missed him every day. “Cersei, I swear to you, she loved her children up until the very end, no matter what. She was a Lannister, and Lannisters always stand by their family, you know this.”

“Jaime is the only one who understands,” Cersei muttered finally, when she’d regained control of herself and Elia had withdrawn her hand. “No one else knows, no one else can ever know-,”

“You love Jaime more than anyone in this world,” Elia said firmly, “But you cannot love him the way you have been, Cersei. One day you will needs marry, as will he, and it will not be to each other.”

“But the Targaryens-,”

“You are a Lannister,” Elia said forcefully, “Not a Targaryen. I know your father thought to make you one, someday, but even if that had come to pass, you would have been the wife of the prince. Not your brother.”

“I don’t want to marry Jaime,” Cersei scowled. “I love him, but I’m not- I’m not stupid like he is, sometimes-,”

“Jaime cannot be your entire world,” Elia pointed out. “No matter how much you want him to. You will always love each other, and you may always… feel something for one another, but the kissing and the touching must end. For your own sake, Cersei. Think of your future. Think of what could await you,” she urged, hoping to draw on the ambition she knew simmered beneath the surface of the little lioness, “You will be a great lady of another house. You cannot have that if you and your brother continue like this. Do you understand?”

For once, her words seemed to have gotten through to the girl. She slowly nodded, eyes gleaming in the light of the hearth.

“Then we will not speak of this again,” Elia said with a note of finality. “Ever. The servant has been given a good sum of money to go and settle somewhere else and never speak of what they saw to anyone. I will not tell your father or anyone else unless I am forced to. I do not expect you to treat me any different than you have been, but I would ask that you stop taking this out on Tyrion. He is just a little boy who would love you dearly if you let him.”

Cersei was silent when she left the room. Elia had not truly expected the girl’s behavior to change at all, but in some ways it had. She was not quite warm to her stepmother, but she was for the most part cordial now, and while Elia doubted Cersei and Tyrion would ever be close, the girl no longer lashed out at the toddler, and even seemed to tolerate his presence at times. And she and Ashara seemed to have reached some understanding, because the two were rarely apart.

Tywin, of course, had no idea what the cause of this change was, but did privately admit to Elia that he was relieved by it. He still had no love for his youngest son, but Elia saw that as a battle for another day, and did her best to parent the boy when not in her husband’s presence. 

Due to his position, he was often away, but he was home when the idea of the tourney was proposed, although Elia doubted she was the first to hear it. She did not love Tywin, and he did not love her, but they had agreed on some level of mutual respect and attraction, and acted on the latter quiet frequently when he was home, although they were still careful to avoid a pregnancy. 

Elia had found that it was hard to deceive one another while nude, for example, and now she turned to her husband, quite content with displaying her own body, while he languidly arranged the sheets around his lower half- likely, she thought, to disguise the fact that she could still arouse him even after doing far more than just that.

“Surely there is something to be celebrated,” he said, pointedly. “Viserys was born living, and healthy, at that, and the king and queen have had little to rejoice over since the death of Jaehaerys.”

“I understand that, husband,” Elia snorted, brushing her fingers along the bristles on his sharp, proud jaw. “Only I had not thought you the sort of man to devote such expense and lavishness to a babe, even if he is a prince. Catering to Aerys cannot be your only goal.”

Tywin regarded her carefully, catching her small hand in his own. “And what do you suspect me of, then?” His grip was not bruising or painful, but firm.

“Ambition of the highest sort,” Elia murmured with a pointed look. “I cannot fault you for it, I only wish to discuss how we might go about securing Viserys for Cersei.”

He appeared slightly relieved and slightly taken aback. “Then you-,”

“I neither agree nor disagree with the match. She would be a decade his senior-,”

“I am over a decade and a half yours,” Twyin said dismissively.

“And I am the wife, not the husband,” Elia countered. “There will be other matches offered-,”

“Aerys was like a brother to me,” Tywin insisted. “He will see my reasoning, he should be honored-,”

“The king will be honored?” Elia repeated archly. “Tywin, if you are to propose such a thing, you must do so delicately. A tourney is fine and well, but you cannot appear expectant. Frame it in a different way altogether. The king trusts you. The king believes he has many enemies, and must secure his line, keep that line safe from those who would betray it. House Lannister?” She tugged her hand free from Tywin’s, and laid it on his cheek. “House Lannister would never betray the Iron Throne.”

Only when she realized that her husband was looking at her almost admiringly did she falter slightly and flush. 

“You continue to surprise me,” he remarked dryly, looking slightly amused at the way she glanced away.

“Happily?” she dared to ask in a slightly teasing tone.

“Occasionally,” he mused, what might have been the beginnings of a smirk pulling at his mouth.

Elia knew everyone said Lady Joanna had been the only person to ever make Tywin Lannister laugh, but she sometimes liked to think she was the only person to make him look both smug and intrigued all at the same time.

“Let us discuss your tourney, then, and not my success and failures as a spouse-,”

He sat up straight and pulled her to him, ignoring her indignant yelp. “I’ve had enough discussion for now.”


	6. The Autumn Tempest

Robarra married the prince in autumn, before the snows began in the South and made travel too difficult. The trees in the kingswood were red and gold and orange and crimson and amber, and the heat in King’s Landing had settled to a more tolerable warmness during the day and a refreshing coolness at night. The harvests were being brought in, and the smallfolk flocked to the city, seeking safety and warmth against the approaching winter. 

Robarra had turned sixteen three moons prior, and this time, her mother and brothers were present. Renly had been born two years prior, and Barra adored him- he was a sweet-tempered, entertaining little boy, never lacking a smile and always happy to be spun about in her arms or ride on Stannis’s back. Stannis was as serious and grim as ever, but recently betrothed to Jeyne Swann, who was of an age with him. 

Robarra was not overly fond of her brother, but she did love him, and she thought it was a good match- their parents had done well in arranging it. Jeyne was serious and proud like Stannis, but had a more good-natured amiability to her that he did not, and she was pretty- chestnut brown hair and eyes so dark they were almost black, with high cheekbones- but not in a vain way, which she knew Stannis would have despised. They suited each other well, and seemed pleased with one another.

She was relieved to have her family with her in the weeks and then days leading up to the wedding, as the pressure seemed to be continuously mounting- most of the great houses of the realm would be there, aside from the Starks and Greyjoys, who rarely left their homelands, and envious eyes would be on her at all sides, even if she and Rhaegar had been betrothed for years. 

Cassana hid her worries behind a warm smile and a reassuring word, telling Robarra how proud she was of her, how tall and lovely she was, and how she would truly look every inch the princess on her wedding day, how the prince would surely think her the Maiden herself. Robarra tried not to be bitter- what did her mother know? She and Father had married for love, and were still in love. Robarra was fond of Rhaegar, even attracted to him at times, in spite of her best efforts, but she did not love him. Surely love was more than a handsome face and gallant words. Love was… love was something you had to fight for. Not this… cold serenity.

But only little girls spoke of love and she was no child anymore. 

She stared at her appearance in the mirror intently as her mother and handmaids helped her dress on the morning of her wedding day, which had dawned cool and sunny, an almost crisp breeze in the air and not a cloud in the pale blue sky. Her gown was pure white and full-skirted, accented with rich gold embroidery on the bodice and sleeves, and an onyx stag hung on a chain around her neck, a silver dragon with glittering garnet eyes coiled around it.

A Valyrian steel circlet was on her head; Mother had insisted they leave her black curls be, rather than braided them up or piling them atop her head. Crimson roses were woven into the dark curls, and she felt as though she could barely move for fear of sending them fluttering to the ground. Her maiden cloak was rich gold, a black stag embroidered in the center, and had to be held up by the other women when she took a slow step forward.

“You look beautiful,” Cassana assured her, her fond smile masking the trace of grief in her eyes as she carefully placed a kiss on Robarra’s brow- she had to lean up to do so, as her daughter had inherited her father’s height. 

“I feel like an imposter,” Robarra muttered, then regretted it, for Cersei Lannister had heard it and was trying to hide a smirk with an innocent look. There was no real hatred between the two- the Lannister girl was engaged to the second-born prince, after all, even if he was only three, but she knew Cersei thought her less than a suitable bride for her beloved Rhaegar, although she doubted he even knew that the blonde girl existed. Women did not often turn her husband to be’s silver head, not her, and not even a growing beauty like Cersei Lannister.

She thought perhaps he had displayed some interest in Elia Lannister, for they’d danced together at the tourney in honor of Viserys’s birth three years prior, and appeared to be deep in conversation, but then again, perhaps not. Tywin Lannister’s Dornish second wife did not appear envious or melancholy now, merely slightly reproachful, but that was directed at her stepdaughter.

The walk to Baelor’s Sept felt like it took years, rather than minutes. A hush had fallen over every corridor, every courtyard. The servants had stopped their frenetic work of preparing for the feast to fall to their knees as Robarra passed silently by. She should have felt giddy with power. She would be their princess, today, and someday, their queen. Women would have killed to be in her position.

All she felt was a sort of hollow dread. She’d thought… she’d thought it would feel different. She’d thought there’d be at least some small measure of satisfaction, but now she wanted to run. She wanted to run far away from here. She thought of Ned Stark, briefly, and of the man he must be by now. She had not seen him since they were children, but her thoughts still turned to the North from time to time. She doubted he remembered her all that well. Truth be told, her own memories of him were faded and blurred. Stannis still spoke of him often, however. Perhaps… perhaps he might deliver a letter for her, after the wedding, although she had no idea what she would say.

It was foolish. She was foolish. She was about to marry Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne. 

The incense in the sept was too strong, the candles too bright, flickering in the corners of her vision as she walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, the silence too overpowering. It was as if everyone were afraid to speak. She would have preferred murmurs and whispers. The dry tones of the High Septon were almost a relief. Rhaegar was beautiful, perhaps more than usual, his own circlet gleaming along with his silvery hair, and his solemn violet eyes and his black and crimson doublet… She felt vaguely ill, although she did not know why. She felt naked when her cloak was removed from her shoulders, and almost turned to her father beseechingly, but forced herself to remain completely motionless, standing tall and straight as Rhaegar draped the bridal cloak over her shoulders, fastening the iron clasp. His cool fingers brushed inadvertently against her neck while doing so- she felt as though she were burning, although with what she didn’t know. Shame? Anger?

“With this kiss,” she said in a proud, clear voice, that she did not feel at all, “I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.”

“With this kiss,” Rhaegar said softly, almost a whisper in contrast to her declaration, “I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife.”

In six years of betrothal, neither had ever attempted to kiss the other, although there had been a few moments when Robarra had thought… she supposed her husband was too honorable for that. All that had stopped her from kissing a squire or two herself- there had been one night after a feast with Richard Lonmouth- had been fear of the king finding out- she didn’t think his reaction would be to simply have her father scold her or send her home.

She did not feel very virtuous as his lips pressed gently against her own, and kissed him back quickly before pulling away, face flushed as they turned to face the crowd, who roared and cheered their approval. Her father sent her an almost grateful look- she had played her part, she thought, and played it well, and now there could be no question of it- she was Robarra Targaryen, and her children would be the blood of the dragon.

Normally Robarra enjoyed feasts. She liked the drinking- she could hold her liquor as well as any man- and the dancing- there wasn’t a man at court she had not danced with, and danced well with, except Aerys himself- and she enjoyed flitting from place to place, teasing and flirting and making conversation.

She felt like a statue at her own wedding feast, sitting still and silent at Rhaegar’s side, watching the guests eat and drink and be merry. Stray rose petals kept drifting down into her lap, and she methodically plucked up each one and discarded them onto the floor.

Her husband sighed. “If I’ve displeased you in any way-,”

“You haven’t,” she said swiftly. “I’m sorry, Rhaegar, I don’t mean-,” she pinched a blood red petal between her fingers. “I don’t mean to seem saddened. I’m happy, I am,” she lied, gazing out over the hall. “Only… a bit nervous for the bedding, I suppose.”

That wasn’t completely untrue. She did not think Rhaegar would be cruel or even careless with her, but she did not anticipate a pleasant experience, either. It was their duty to produce a son, as soon as possible. 

The unconvinced look on his face softened, and he took her still warm hand in his cool one. She didn’t know whether to jerk it away or not. “I promise, I will try to make it as painless as possible for you, Robarra. You are my wife. I want you to… to feel secure,” he settled on, with a reassuring smile.

She tired of people trying to assure her. “Of course,” she murmured, and made to stand up. “Shall we lead the dancing, husband?”

Rhaegar and her danced as well together as she danced with any other man, but he moved more slowly, more precisely, and she had to remain hyper-aware the entire time as as not to appear as though she were merely rushing through the motions. The onlookers fawned over them, and she tried to match his un-chagrined smile, to appear as utterly unfazed as he did at all times. It was difficult. 

Then he danced with his mother, even more gracefully than he had danced with her, two silver and scarlet forms in perfect unison, and Barra danced with her father at a much quicker, less careful pace, fast as lightning, which left her breathless and laughing, if only a little.

“Everything will be well,” he told her firmly before passing her off to the next partner, Ser Arthur Dayne, “You’ll see, sweetling. They already love you.”

She supposed he was right. The people did love her. She was well-liked at court, and paid visits to the sept and the orphanage and the poor, and did not flinch or sneer at the sight of the lowest of King’s Landing. She didn’t hold herself above a merchant or a serving girl simply because she had been born a lady. 

They love you, she chanted it to herself, dance after dance. They love you, they love you- Then she was dancing with her husband again- He doesn’t love you, and you don’t love him, but it doesn’t matter, the people love you, you are their princess, you will be their queen, and they love you-

The musicians launched into ‘The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, The King Took Off His Crown’, and she fought back her uncertainties and fear. She knew what happened in the marital bed, even anticipated it, in some way. She was no quavering, delicate little girl. This could be more than her duty, than a burden.

Aerys’ shrill cries for the bedding did not alarm her, nor did the somewhat sickening look on his face. The king preferred fragile, pale blondes, when he was not raping or beating his wife, and so she had never feared him in that sense. A few of the other men who advanced on her, however… But Stannis was there, dutiful, exasperated, scowling Stannis, and she had never been more grateful to him as he scooped her up in his arms with a grunt, and glowered at any man who did more than graze her as they pulled off her bridal cloak and yanked petals from her hair.

“There you are,” her brother said gruffly, as he deposited her in the bedding chambers, and Barra impulsively kissed him on the cheek, ignoring his surprised look, since she was usually more likely to hit him than to kiss or embrace him.

“Dance a few more songs with Jeyne,” she told him in her best imperious older sister tone, and kept the teasing grin on her face until he had slammed the door shut behind him. Rhaegar was along a few minutes later, amiable and somehow still dignified, even with a crowd of shrieking, giggling women behind him, all eager to get a chance to lay hands on the painfully handsome prince.

Some of Robarra’s jealous ire was raised and she shot a nasty look at Lysa Tully in particular, before Rhaegar carefully but firmly closed the door, leaving the other women out in the dark corridor, and her in the room with him.

The two regarded one another in silence, until Robarra turned to the wine and cups set out for them, she supposed for when either bride or groom lost their nerve. She wasn’t frightened, not right now, to her surprise. Only a bit wary. And he looked completely unruffled, although he had certainly done this before- all men had, even bookish princes who preferred songs to women.

“Wine, Your Grace?” she raised her cup to him almost in jest- she had not referred to him as such in years.

“I had quite enough at the feast,” he said with a smile. “As did you, I think.”

Perhaps she was a little tipsy. She just felt pleasantly warm, not really drunk or giddy.

Looking at him expectantly, she raised her hands to remove her circlet, but he stopped her.

“Let me.”

She held her breath as he gently took it from her head, and smoothed back her curls almost chastely.

“Do you want me?” Barra blurted out impulsively, gazing up at him with a furrowed brow.

He paused. “Of course I want you, we are husband and wife-,”

“That’s not answering my question. You want me for your wife, but do you want me-,” she pressed on, it was too late for embarrassment, “As a woman?”

In reply, he tipped her face up to his and kissed her. His hands were still too cool, and too soft for a man who fought and rode as he did- but his kiss was all fire, nothing like the one in the sept, and Barra eagerly replied in kind. 

This was not love, but this she could tolerate- this was some struggle, some passion, at least, and she felt more alive, more herself, than she had all evening when her gown ripped slightly and he did not stop and apologize sweetly, but only kissed her harder, hands traveling down from her face, to her neck, to her chest.

No, she did not love him, and she knew he did not her, but to her satisfaction she found that at least some part of him had wanted her, and wanted her very much, she thought later, with the barest hint of a triumphant smile, as her Targaryen prince slept beside her, one hand still tangled in her coal black curls. She had found that she had wanted him as well, the part of him that was fire and blood, not gleaming, cold silver.


	7. The Hand's Tongue

Elia missed Casterly Rock. Once, she could never have imagined saying such a thing, but she had been married to Tywin and lady of the Rock for six years, and while it was no small honor to be the wife of the Hand and have a respected place at court, she preferred being able to hold her own court at Casterly Rock. Perhaps it was because she was in control there, whereas here what she wanted held far less sway. 

But Cersei was betrothed to Prince Viserys, and as her stepmother it was Elia’s duty to be there for the girl- she was a bit old for scolding septas, at fourteen. Not that a fourteen year old betrothed to a four year old boy needed much supervision, but Jaime was present as a squire for Lord Crakehall, and while to Elia’s knowledge the twins no longer played at kissing games with one another, she did keep a careful eye on them.

She was also one of Princess Robarra’s ladies, and so expected to accompany the princess on most outings, which was how she found herself riding through the Kingswood. Elia rode a fine golden Dornish sand steed she called Meria, and the mare out-paced all of the other ladies’ mounts beside Robarra’s pitch black courser Elenei, which was unusual for a noble woman. Then again, Elia had observed that the young woman liked to push her mounts, frequently frustrating her guards when she galloped past them.

“You shouldn’t ride so hard, Your Grace,” she cautioned, matching the brisk pace of the princess’s horse. “If you were to take a fall-,”

“I rode just as hard when I was pregnant with Visenya,” the girl said dismissively. The firstborn child of Rhaegar and Robarra had been born at the very start of the year, a wild little thing with a head of black curls like her mother and her father’s startling indigo eyes, although they leaned slightly more blue than violet. Everyone said the girl would grow up to be a wild beauty, and she was just over four moons old. Both parents seemed enchanted with her, and she was healthy thus far, although Aerys had reportedly been furious that the girl looked more Baratheon than Targaryen, and moreso, that she hadn’t been a son.

A weaker girl than Robarra Targaryen might have been dismayed and frightened, but Elia knew the former Baratheon well enough. “I will bear Rhaegar plenty of sons in the future,” she’d said slightly scornfully, as they sat and watched a fool entertain the court. “One daughter will not be the downfall of the dynasty.”

The prince had seemed thrilled, if anything- Elia had never known a father except perhaps her own to be so taken with his child, to hold the babe so freely, sing and play the harp for her, and shower affection and praise on her and her mother. If anything, he seemed far more effusive and warm with his wife now that she’d born him a child, although he’d always been courteous before.

“I imagine he will dedicate a great monument in your honor if you bear him a son next, Your Grace,” Jeyne Swann had said with a bit of a smirk, “If this is his reaction to a daughter!”

Robarra had rolled her eyes and laughed, while Ashara had commented archly, “And why shouldn’t he? Visenya would rule even if he had no sons after her.”

“A daughter comes before an uncle,” Cersei had agreed somewhat icily, and Elia had watched Ashara mouth an apology to the other girl in regret for having hit upon a somewhat sore point- Cersei would be a princess someday, but never queen. 

And she would have to learn to be content with that, Elia thought sharply, for she had no idea the dangers of holding the throne, after years of her family filling her head with nonsense of courtly love and adoring crowds of smallfolk throwing roses. Sometimes kings were cruel, and the smallfolk threw stones and mud. 

But still, the little princess was treasured- the queen seemed to almost regard her as another child of her own, and Robarra seemed happy enough to leave her in the care of her goodmother while she went out with her ladies to ride and hawk. Elia doubted the hawks would catch much; it was winter, and the Kingswood was blanketed with snow. 

She missed Dorne more than ever now, in the cold. Her mother had died of a stroke shortly after Visenya was officially named by the High Septon in the Sept of Baelor. She had not seen her family in four years, not since the birth of her brother Doran’s first child, a little girl named Arianne. She hoped to visit them again when spring came, and take Ashara with her to see her family at Starfall.

“I wish Rhaegar would come out with us sometime,” Robarra suddenly said, mouth turned down in a slight scowl. “Sometimes I think he is even more devoted to his books and scrolls now that he has a child.”

“The prince is a scholarly man,” Elia smiled dryly. “He takes his knowledge of history very seriously.”

“Oh, of course, it’s always the past or the future with him,” the black-haired girl groaned. “I only wish he’d- well, Visenya is just a babe, and he is already talking of her brother.”

“You have plenty of time to bear a son,” Elia said comfortingly, wondering if that really did trouble the girl, despite her insistence otherwise. She had taken on the role somewhat of an older sister to the princess, although she admitted the girl had a horrific temper when roused and was not one for gentle courtesies or soothing words. No, there had likely been some Targaryen fire to her even before she was wed. 

Robarra did, however, have the forethought to pitch her voice somewhat lower, out of the earshot of the other women. “He says we must start trying for a babe again before the year is out.”

This puzzled Elia; Rhaegar was twenty one, his wife seventeen. Surely they had plenty of time to have other children with a few years in between them. It must have shown on her face, despite her efforts to look neutral, and Robarra sighed. “I do not mind, not really, I do want Visenya to have a sibling, but he says the next one will be a boy. If it is not-,”

“I’m sure he would not hold it against you if you bore him another daughter,” Elia soothed. “He will see reason either way. He’ll have his heir eventually.”

There was a short silence, punctuated only by the crisp sounds of the horses trotting through the snow. “I worry, at times, is all,” Robarra said with a note of finality. “Not for myself or him, but for the children.”

Perhaps, Elia thought, she feared her daughters and sons might inherit Aerys’s madness, or lust after one another. But Elia couldn’t quite understand a mother’s worry- she had no children of her own, although she did consider Tyrion as her own son. But Tywin refused to bring the boy to court, and so he remained at Casterly Rock, and Elia wrote him when she could. He was a bright, clever, talkative child when not in the presence of his father. 

She did not get the chance to talk anymore of it, for minutes later their party was attacked by the Kingswood Brotherhood, the band of outlaws that had been plaguing the Crownlands for the past few years, and Jeyne Swann and her septa, an older woman named Bridgette, carried off into the woods. The men were enraged at being taken by surprise, the women were screaming, Robarra was in a fury, Cersei’s horse spooked and nearly threw her, and Elia had to grab the girl’s reins from her before the mare bolted into the trees, and the party was rushed back to King’s Landing.

Prince Rhaegar and Tywin met them just inside Maegor’s Holdfast, as Elia slipped nimbly down from her saddle, shaken but far more calm than most of the other ladies, and helped down a white-faced and tearful Cersei, who clung to a wide-eyed Ashara for comfort.

“Are you hurt?” Tywin demanded, taking Elia by one shoulder and his daughter by the other. A few flakes were drifting down from the overcast skies.

“We’re fine, my lord, only frightened,” she said, although slightly touched by the genuine concern on his usually unreadable face. “But two of the women were taken-,”

Rhaegar was holding Robarra’s face in his hands, a sight that would have been almost heartfelt had she not jerked away in frustration, eyes alight with fury. “Husband, I am fine! It is Jeyne who we should be concerned for, and her septa-,”

“You are my wife and the mother of my children,” he retorted, although he did not raise his voice to match hers in pitch. “It is you I worry for- this will be the end to your rides in the Kingswood-,”

“This will be the end to those damn outlaws,” the girl snapped, ignoring the looks of shock she received in return. She drew herself up to her full height, hood slipping down, blue eyes ablaze. “I want their heads and I want Jeyne Swann and her septa returned unharmed, and it will be a bag of gold to any men who can-,”

“That is not for you to decide,” Rhaegar insisted, taking her by the hand.

“Come inside before you both fall ill out here,” Tywin said grimly, interrupting Elia’s witnessing of the spat, and she followed her husband and stepdaughter out of the cold, rubbing her gloved hands together.

She waited until Cersei had been sent off to her rooms to bathe and lie down before raising the matter with Tywin in his solar. Elia had tried to bring some life into the Tower of the Hand; she’d bought new tapestries and silks for the walls, hoped to bring in some ferns and flowers when spring came, but there was no shaking the influence of Tywin Lannister from this room, where everything was in Lannister red and gold and seemed to hold itself just as stiffly as he did.

“You will not set foot in those woods again until the outlaws are dealt with,” he told her firmly.

“The Swann girl-,”

“I doubt they’ll rape or beat her, not when they can extract a ransom from her family, although knowing the Swanns they will be loathe to pay it.”

“You must ask Aerys to send men after them, before the days get any colder or shorter,” she insisted, taking a seat by the hearth and running a hand through her hair, shaking loose a few icy droplets of snow.

“He’ll be forced to now; they were fools to attack the princess’s party,” Tywin pointed out. “But it will be more difficult to track them, in the snow.”

“They had horses a plenty,” mused Elia, “And I saw the Smiling Knight- he laughs like a madman and rides like a devil.”

Her husband snorted, and then came to stand beside her, staring into the fire with her. “Rhaegar is growing impatient.”

“For his father to die?” Elia asked calmly.

“I believe he feels… stifled. The king will not even permit him to live on Dragonstone full time, not now that he’s sired a potential heir. He was always a patient boy, but-,” Tywin glanced down at her and raised a blond eyebrow.

“The man is less patient,” Elia finished the thought for him. “Could you blame him? Aerys tips the realms towards ruin with every proclamation, the people all know you rule in truth-,” she reached up and squeezed his hand, “And the princess speaks of his… restlessness as well.”

“I did not think the Baratheon girl nearly that perceptive,” Tywin remarked dryly. 

“He is her husband, of course she’s aware of his moods,” Elia tutted. “All wives are.”

“Are they now?” his hands moved down to massage her shoulders. “Tell me, wife, what is my mood?”

“Furious that what’s yours was in danger today, aggravated over Aerys’ infirmity,” she drawled, tilting her head back to look up at him, “And very attracted to your wife. But you needs meet with the king, before he has guards bursting down the door looking for you. I’ll be waiting.”

She saw him out and was about to retire to her own rooms, eager to change into something more comfortable than her riding clothes, when there was the pounding of feet on the stairs and she was nearly bowled over by Jaime, whose golden locks were in disarray and green eyes wild.

He exclaimed and steadied his stepmother, then impulsively embraced her. Elia kissed him on the cheek and smoothed back his hair. “We’re alright, Jaime, there’s no need to panic-,”

“I’m not- Cersei and Ashara, are they-,”

“They’re well,” she soothed. “Shaken, but unharmed.”

He did not look as though he quite believed her for a moment, but in after a minute or so his breathing began to steady. “Bloody Merrett Frey,” he snarled under his breath, “Convinced me to go into the city with him rather than accompany you-,”

“You are not a member of the Kingsguard,” she reminded him. “It’s not your duty to-,”

“Of course it’s my duty!” he snapped. “You’re my-,” he hesitated. “Cersei and you are my family,” he said in a slightly more restrained tone. “And Ashara is- a- a friend,” he was reddening slightly at the knowing look on Elia’s face.

“Don’t look at me like that-,”

“Ashara’s parents are dead,” Elia remarked, “And her eldest brother will not betroth her to just any man. I know the man- he will rely on her judgement, and Ashara is eighteen now, not a giggling little girl-,”

“Elia,” the boy said in exasperation, “Father would never-,”

“He might,” she countered, “And if you would just let me ask him-,”

“He’ll respect me even less if I have you do it for me!” Jaime snapped, looking down at the floor in irritation. “Besides, I’m only a squire still.”

She conceded to his point, and warned him off checking on either girl, telling him to go find Lord Crakehall before the man had him belted for neglecting his duties. Then she went to find a maid to draw her a bath.


	8. The Dragon's Wives

Aegon’s birth was somewhat gentler than Visenya’s. Robarra cared not- she had not only survived the tumultuous birth of her first child, but recovered quickly and remained in good health, something many women could not say, and with Aegon her only concern was that he be a son. She murmured his name under her breath in between pants and groans of pain, and shrieked it as he crowned, even if all the maester could see was a pale head. 

“Aegon,” she gasped when he was finally, blessedly out, and while with Visenya there had been instant wails and screeches, with her son there was dreadful silence for a few moments, before a low, thin cry rang out. 

“A Targaryen prince,” a midwife crooned as she toweled blood off the babe’s head. “Oh, his hair!”

Robarra stared blearily in the direction of the infant being bundled up, now that the maester had snipped the cord, and realized that while the babe had a shock of dark curls just like his sister, a silvery streak cut through them like a scar, which only became more apparent in the days and weeks that followed. Aegon’s eyes were the same color as his sister’s, if perhaps a shade paler, but Robarra privately thought he had the Baratheon squareness to his face, and looked much like Renly had as a babe.

But in the meantime, there was Rhaegar. She had to say his name thrice to get him to look at her, as he cradled a sleeping Aegon in his arms. Visenya, a little over a year old, dozed at her mother’s side, curled up like a cat, her black curls a tangled mess. Barra ran her fingers through them curiously as she looked at Aegon’s streak, a glimmer of Targaryen silver amidst a swath of Barathon black. 

“I’ve never seen anything like that before.” Rhaegar, she realized belatedly, was barely listening to her. “Husband,” she snapped in exasperation, and reached tiredly for his sleeve. Only then did he seem to rouse himself from his silent musing and laid the newborn back down in his cradle. 

“He’s all I could have hoped for,” Rhaegar said honestly, with one of his soft smiles, and Barra smiled back tiredly as he pressed a cool kiss to her brow. 

“How will the rest of our children ever live up to the first two?” she asked in jest, but Rhaegar only smiled, and reached for Visenya. 

“You should rest.”

“Leave her be, she’s no bother,” Robarra yawned. “Come to bed yourself. It is early yet.” Dawn was only just breaking outside now, a soft snow falling outside the tower window. She shifted slightly, moving over as her husband slowly climbed into the bed on the other side of their daughter, and reached across Visenya for his hand. 

Normally she was not so sentimental and affectionate, but this past pregnancy had made her unusually weepy. Was it so wrong to want to be close to the father of her children? Rhaegar and her might not have a love like something out of the songs, but she loved Visenya more than she had ever thought possible, and knew she would grow to love her son the same. They were gifts, and she was loathe to be spiteful to the man who had given them to her, even if they did not often see eye to eye.

But… while Aegon had not been born out of the senseless passion that Visenya had, the need to touch and be touched, to claim one another as their one, she thought that he was the product of slightly sweeter, more softer affection, and perhaps their future children would really be born out of actual love. There was time yet.

The king still complained that both the children ‘barely looked Targaryen’ and that ‘he would have thought Rhaegar had been cuckolded, if not for their eyes’. Robarra held her tongue, although she dug bloody crescents into her palms with her fingernails as the court chuckled uneasily at the supposed jape. 

Rhaella lay a soft hand on her shoulder, and she thought not to shake it off. It was not so easy for The Storm Princess, as the court had taken to calling her, noting her occasional signs of barely restrained temper, to sit quietly while her goodfather humiliated her and her husband.

But Rhaegar didn’t seem very perturbed; if anything, he was more at ease than ever before, speaking of the tourney to be held at Harrenhall. Robarra could not attend; Aegon was barely a month and a half old, and not nearly old enough to travel, even if the King had been willing to allow it, and she would not leave him and Visenya in King’s Landing. Rhaegar was intent on attending, for reasons she could not discern.

Her goodmother shed some light on it, shortly after the royal party had departed, leaving Tywin Lannister to sit the Iron Throne as Hand, and the queen to enjoy a welcome reprieve from her husband. The Red Keep was far quieter with most of the court absent, and Barra found it easier to breathe without the looming presence of Aerys and the Kingsguard. 

It would take a party of that size at least a few weeks to reach Harrenhall, and then with how long the tourney was expected to be, it would be likely two moons before Aerys and Rhaegar returned, along with young Viserys, whom Rhaella had pleaded with Aerys to let stay with her, and received a sprained arm for her insolence. 

Robarra had urged her ladies to attend in her absence, and Ashara Dayne and Cersei Lannister had both gone on to Harrenhall with Elia Martell Lannister and Tywin’s two sons, although Jeyne Swann turned Baratheon was now wed to Stannis and visiting King’s Landing in the absence of the king. She was not yet pregnant, but they’d been married for less than half a year, and Barra assured her she had plenty of time yet to give Storm’s End an heir. Cassana Baratheon had come with her son and gooddaughter as a surprise for Barra, whom had been unable to contain her yelp of surprise upon seeing her mother, and found herself burying her head in the woman’s hair as if she were a child once more, and not a woman of eighteen with children of her own.

They took their refreshment in the queen’s rooms, on one of the open balconies overlooking a courtyard. The weather was unusually warm now, in contrast to the frigid day when Aegon had been born, and although no white raven had arrived from the Citadel announcing that winter had ended, it seemed likely that spring was coming. It was hard to be in a sour mood when it was seasonable enough to wear more airy, light gowns once more, instead of trailing skirts, and Barra shifted as Aegon nursed at her breast, seated in between her mother and goodsister.

“I believe Rhaegar hoped to speak to the lords present at the tourney,” Rhaella said softly, innocently, and very pointedly, as delicate as a sewing needle. “So they may come to know their future king a little better. ...His Grace my husband had no intentions of attending, at first.”

Robarra understood what the older woman was trying to say. Someone had alerted Aerys to the fact that his heir was trying to curry favor with the lords. But for Rhaegar to be making a tactical move like that, helping to fund a tourney… Barra had never thought her husband a fool, but she had never quite considered him shrewd, either, despite his obvious intelligence and scholarliness, but now she was reconsidering.

“Do you believe this to be a Lannister ploy?” Cassana asked bluntly, and Jeyne stiffened, gaze darting to the doorway and corridor outside. Rhaella had dismissed the maidservants, but the women quieted for a moment all the same, before the conversation continued at a much quieter pitch.

“The last Great Council,” Rhaella finally murmured, “Elected Aegon the Unlikely, my grandsire.”

“Rhaegar would not be so unlikely,” Robarra said flatly, ignoring the searching look her mother was giving her. “There will be no debate there. An abdication,” she added shortly, “Perhaps.”

Cassana made a shushing noise and Jeyne’s eyes widened, but Rhaella looked understanding, although she said nothing except, “We shall see when our husbands return, then, who has won and who has lost at Harrenhall.”

For the rest of the time they spoke of shallow things and sewed, and Barra nursed her son, already healthy and strong, and large for his age, and tried to imagine a future where Aerys was no longer a threat to her or her children and she sat by Rhaegar’s side as queen. Only the king could sit the Iron Throne, not his consort, but she would still rule. She would not have to hold her tongue and act as though she were lesser for not being a sister-wife to her Targaryen husband. Her words would hold real weight. They would call her the Storm Queen, and her children would be dragons with antlers. 

She thought of names for her future children, although she hoped to wait at least a few years before having her third. She would like to bear at least another son and daughter, so Visenya and Aegon would each have a playmate. Rhaena, she thought for a second daughter, after the Black Bride who had defied her uncle-husband, stolen his sword, and fled to join her brother’s cause on dragonback. Daeron, for another son, after the Young Dragon and Daeron the Good. 

Visenya and Aegon and Rhaena and Daeron, she thought, during that time. If he must, Aegon could marry a cousin- a child of Viserys or even a Martell, for they had Targaryen in their line as well, if one looked back far enough. She wanted so much for her children. She was greedy for them. She wanted them to know Storm’s End and Dragonstone, to ride in the Kingswood and on the Kingsroad, she wanted them to attend tourneys and grand feasts. They would never be afraid, because their father was the king, a true, good king, and the Seven Kingdoms would love them all the more.

Rhaegar triumphed at the tourney. He triumphed and crowned Ashara Dayne Queen of Love and Beauty, and not because his real queen was not there or because Arthur Dayne was like a brother to him or to spite young Jaime Lannister, whose betrothal to the girl was all but confirmed. Rhaegar triumphed, crowned quiet, violet-eyed, soft-spoken and quick-witted Ashara, and spirited the girl off, disappearing with her, her brother, Oswell Whent, and the lord commander Gerold Hightower. Jaime Lannister was said to have pursued them with Addam Marbrand, and been badly injured for his trouble, while Marbrand was dead.

Tywin Lannister left the capitol for Casterly Rock shortly before the royal party returned, Aerys ranting and raving about Lannister betrayal and Rhaegar and his ‘Dornish whore’, and men burned and Rhaella’s screams echoed faintly from the king’s chambers, not far from where Robarra sat and read the letter delivered to her, written by her husband himself. When she was done, she burned it and screamed, hands on her head, before destroying his bloody harp with a poker from the hearth. 

Rhaegar spoke of prophecy, and fate, and reassured her that this was no slight intended to her, his wife, but that she could not be the mother of his Rhaenys. She had given him Visenya, and Aegon, and for that he was grateful, but the dragon must have three heads, and he had been searching for a suitable woman to birth gentle Rhaenys for some time, and finally realized who it must be. He understood that this was unprecedented, but Targaryen kings had taken two wives before, and she would always be his first queen, held in no lesser esteem. 

He hoped she could at least attempt to understand why he had done this. When Ashara bore him Rhaenys he would return with his second queen and the princess, and Aerys would be forced to abdicate. All would be well. He knew she was a strong woman, and she only had to remain strong for a little while longer, before he returned. 

When she was done bludgeoning the wooden fragments of the once beautifully carved harp, scattered across the stone floor, Barra sank to the floor as well in a puddle of skirts and tried to confront the new reality: her husband was as mad as his father, only his madness had been hidden for years, growing. Barra had considered Ashara a close friend, and could not understand a situation in which she would go with Rhaegar willingly- she’d seemed taken with the Lannister boy, and mayhaps taken with his twin sister as well.

House Lannister wasted no time in summoning its banners, and Houses Martell and Baratheon were quick to follow- Cassana, Stannis, and Jeyne had returned to Storm’s End weeks before any of the news had broken, and Barra felt a strange sense of pride, almost, that her family would stand for no more humiliation at the hands of the Targaryens, despite Aerys’ threats.

Jonothor Darry beat her apologetically at the king’s orders, avoiding her face and keeping his blows as restrained as they could be without provoking even more fury from Aerys. The court watched in mute silence. 

“I’ll burn them all,” Aerys snarled on the throne, staring hatefully down at her, eyes brightening with every cry of pain. “Your father, your mother, your brothers- I only spare you their fate as Rhaegar’s true wife. He’ll come crawling back, when he tires of that Dornish cunt, and he’ll beg for my mercy.”

He will beg, Robarra thought, clenching her jaw so as not to shriek again, her back and arms and legs covered in welts and bruises, for my mercy, not yours. And I will not give it to him.

Houses Stark and Arryn joined Lannister, Martell, and Baratheon. Tyrell devoted themselves to the throne, and Tully and Greyjoy remained neutral, for the time being. Rhaella wept. Barra kept her children and Viserys close, thought of Rhaegar’s letter every night, and burned his books, his papers, the clothes he had left- what would not burn, she had hacked apart. 

In the destruction, she found some small semblance of peace, for if there was nothing left to her, there would be nothing left to him. He had taken everything from her- her honor, her pride, her peace, her safety- and he would walk over her corpse before he sat the Iron Throne. The throne belonged to Aegon now, and Aegon’s it would be, in time. She had already waited so long for them to call her queen. What was a little longer?


	9. The Scaled Lion

Elia did not realize she was with child until she began to vomit every morning, four months into the war. She did not tell Tywin for another week, after her husband had finished reading yet another message from Jon Arryn, who had managed to secure the Eyrie, just as the loyalist houses in the Stormlands had been overtaken as well, although at the cost of Steffon Baratheon. Elia had met the man before, and was saddened by his loss- he had been shrewd, of someone from a notoriously temperamental family, and she hoped young Stannis was willing to rise to the challenge of managing the Baratheon forces. 

Tully had literally married themselves to the cause with the wedding of Brandon Stark and Catelyn Tully. Lyanna Stark had been wed to Elbert Arryn in the same ceremony. The Stark-Tully-Baratheon front had the Crownlands surrounded to the North and East, and Martell was advancing from the South. Lannister, however, was pinioned by Tyrell forces from the South. The expectation was that Tyrell would be forced to retreat to the capitol when Martell crossed the Dornish Marches, and then Lannister could surge down to join the assault on the Crownlands.

A child, however, fit into none of these plans. Elia had been wed to Tywin for eight years now, and they had never willfully tried to conceive a child. Her health was poor, and he had his son and heir already. She had no idea how he would have reacted in a time of peace, nevermind in the midst of a civil war. But she would not be able to keep it from him much longer, and so she steeled herself for icy disappointment when he finally came to bed. 

“I may have called Jon Arryn a fool more than once,” he muttered as he stripped off his shirt, “But he’s sensible enough when it comes to battle, I’ll give him that.”

Elia refrained from pointing out that Tywin thought most men fools, and smiled slightly as she rose up on her knees to kiss his jaw. “Are you growing a beard at last?”

“Would you like me to?” he asked dryly, and she huffed a quiet laugh.

“They are somewhat less common in Dorne, given the heat.”

“You’re always warm,” he mused, a hand sliding under her silken shift. 

Reluctantly, Elia stopped it. “I have news for you.”

He stiffened. “If Jaime has-,”

“No, Jaime has not stolen a horse and gone charging off to find Ashara,” Elia said with a wry little smile. “But I am worried for him. To lose a hand so young-,”

“He will adapt,” Tywin said dismissively, although she could sense the pain in his voice. Jaime was his pride, even if the boy had not inherited his father’s wiliness. For him to be crippled at sixteen… 

Still, he would have already been in a deep depression due to the abduction of Ashara. Elia felt personally responsible for it, although she had never voiced any such thoughts aloud. It was she who had encouraged Ashara to attend the tourney. It was she who had not kept a closer eye on the girl she had come to regard as akin to a younger sister. Perhaps if Rhaegar had not been able to take her at Harrenhall, he would not have been able to take her at all… 

Did she think Rhaegar capable of brutalizing a young woman? Before all of this, perhaps not, but now she fully considered him capable of anything. He’d convinced Arthur Dayne to help him kidnap his own sister. She pushed thoughts of mad Targaryens aside for now. They were losing this war, and the rebel houses were winning. 

“Tywin, I’m with child,” she finally said, bluntly, and forced herself to look at his face.

He was very still for a few moments, before asking, a bit hoarsely, “Are you certain?”

“The maester confirmed it to me yesterday,” she admitted. “I only asked him to wait before telling you so I could share it with you myself.”

To her dismay, he turned away from her, so all she could see was his ram-rod stiff back. So he was furious with her, then. Now she would have to endure months of cold silences-

But then he muttered something, and she touched his shoulder carefully. “Husband-,”

“I’m sorry, Elia,” he repeated a bit more clearly, and it was her turn to freeze in place. Tywin was a Lannister, and Lannisters apologized for nothing. He had never so much as done so in jest.

“What do you have to apologize for?” she asked softly. “I am the one with a child you do not want-,”

He turned to face her sharply then, catching her shoulders. “You believe I don’t want this child?” His tone was aggravated, almost accusatory.

“You have three children,” Elia pointed out calmly. “Two of whom are now grown. I would not presume-,”

“You are my wife,” he snapped. “And you bear a trueborn son or daughter. Of course I want this child-,”

“But you think I don’t,” she realized in a murmur, and shook her head fiercely, wrapping her arms around him in an embrace. “Tywin, of course I do, I have always wanted to be a mother, I just- with my health as it is and the war-,”

“I won’t lose you,” he replied stiffly. “Elia, I cannot.”

It was then that it sunk in for her, that he had lost one healthy wife in the birthing bed, nevermind a delicate one. If she desired to, she could drink moon tea, rid herself of the child before it was too late, although even that had its risks, for her.

“You won’t,” she promised, running her small fingers through his golden hair. “I will fight for you, and the baby. I swear it to you, my lord, you will not lose either of us. This will be my war, while you fight yours.”

Truthfully, she was terrified she would never even make it to the labor, and that she would lose the babe before there was any chance for it to truly live. But she had to think positively, she told herself sternly. She would carry this child, she would survive the birth, and their child would grow up safe and loved.

She wanted to tell Tywin’s children herself, and it was Jaime she went to first. He looked younger than sixteen, lying in bed, and she averted her gaze from the stump where his sword hand had once been. He stared at her blearily when she told him of the pregnancy, as if not quite comprehending, and then scowled.

“If it’s a son, Father will name it heir.”

Elia struggled to control her expression. “You know that is nonsense, Jaime. A missing hand does not un-man you.”

“Rhaegar stole my bride and cleaved off my hand,” he spat out, “They call me another Toothless Lion, like my grandsire before me.”

“Your grandsire,” Elia said coldly, “Would not have risked certain death at the hands of two far more experienced warriors to save the woman he loved.”

“But I didn’t save her,” he hissed, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “I failed, and Addam is dead-,”

He is still a boy at heart, she thought bitterly, and shook her head. “And none of that is your fault, Jaime.”

“I couldn’t save her,” he whispered, “And Addam died.”

“But Ashara still lives,” she said fiercely. “You must believe that. And when the war is won-,”

“Father would never let me marry her now,” he murmured. “He would see it as an insult to his pride, for his son to have…,”

‘Rhaegar’s scraps,’ Elia finished the dark thought for him in her own mind, and stiffened. “I will see about that.”

Cersei refused to speak to her, and Elia was not sure if it was from anger that she was getting a half-sibling, or fear that she would lose another mother figure. Either way, she left the girl alone Tyrion was ecstatic, at least, at the idea of a little brother or sister to play with, and was good company for her once she was bed-bound, reading to her and showing off his tumbling skills, although she always made sure he had been sent to bed before Tywin returned to the room. She did not tolerate cruelty towards her step-son, but she had accepted that Tywin would likely never be fond of his youngest.

Towards the end of the pregnancy, several things happened seemingly all at once. The Tyrell forces withdrew, as suspected, back towards the Crownlands. Elia went into labor three weeks early. Ironborn long ships attacked Lannisport.

The port burned, the Rock’s entrances were sealed off, and Elia screamed and sobbed her first and only child into existence, clutching Genna’s hand so hard that her nails nearly broke the older woman’s skin, while the maester and midwives fought to stop all the bleeding. The little girl was tiny, but surprisingly hardy, her skin paler than Elia’s but clearly darker than any Lannister’s, and her fine hair was matted to her head.

Tywin met the girl when she was four days old, after the Ironborn had finally been repelled, although at the cost of the Lannister ships. Elia was so weak she could barely adjust the infant to help her nurse, but smiled wanly up at her husband, who looked very relieved to see her still alive. “I won my battle,” she breathed, “And you, yours.”

He silently sat at the edge of the bed, a hand coming to settle on the babe’s back. “You did well, my lady.”

“I thought… Loreyne,” Elia murmured. “For Loreza and Jeyne, our mothers.”

“Loreyne Lannister,” he said after a moment. “A fine name.”

Tywin Lannister had never shed a tear in his life, Elia knew this, but she privately attested that he came close, for those few short hours they spent together in that room, alone, with their child. When Loreyne’s eye color finally settled, weeks later, it was as green as her father’s.


	10. The Storm Queen

Rhaegar’s hair was nearly as long as her own when she saw him again. He had always worn it down to his shoulder, silver and flowing in the light of the sun or the moon or the sconces of the Red Keep, but it was bound back in a long braid now. Robarra tried to reconcile the man standing before her with the gentle prince she had married. The softness in Rhaegar’s indigo eyes remained, and his face was as unmarked and fair as she remembered, all high cheekbones and regal bearing. 

She felt an overwhelming urge to mar it, somehow, and before he had said more than her name silenced him with a vicious slap, the rings on her fingers cutting his chin slightly. He had ridden into King’s Landing triumphantly, as if they were not a mere moon or two away from being utterly besieged, clad in intimidating armor dark as night. He didn’t frighten her. He enraged her. 

Visenya was a spirited girl of three who had stopped asking after her father. Aegon was a sweet babe, not even two. He called her ‘Mama’, but he had never said ‘Papa’, and if Robarra had her way he never would. Her children had no need of a murderer and rapist. Her children had no need of a coward who left a letter in the wake of his flight.

Barra was a tall woman, but Rhaegar was still much taller than her, and so only jerked back a bit in shock, rather than stumbling or scrambling away from her fury. 

“Bastard!” she seethed, and went to strike at him again, this time with both hands, curled in fists, but he easily caught her arms. She spat in his face and tried to slam her head into his, but he simply dragged her up against his chest while she cursed and struggled. The kingsguard outside the door could be heard shifting uncomfortably, armor creaking, but Barra supposed they were used to hearing queens scream.

Aerys was dead, his reign ended by a tragic fall down the steps of the Tower of the Hand, mere days after Rhaegar’s return to the capitol. Robarra only wished she had been the one to watch the Mad King’s neck snap and body contort, but she suspected that prize had gone to Jon Connington, who now served as Rhaegar’s hand. She had long ago surmised that the man hated her because he was in love with her husband, and to now find herself at the mercy of both of them-

Robarra had restrained herself through the past few days of ‘mourning’ for Aerys. But if her treacherous husband thought she was going to attend his coronation, smiling demurely, then he was tragically mistaken. She’d see her own head on a pike before she knelt for Rhaegar.

“Enough, Robarra,” he said in exasperation as she continued to fight to escape his grip. “I understand your anger, but you must learn to think beyond yourself.”

She recognized his silken tones, but they only infuriated her more now. “Fine words from an adulterer and rapist,” she snarled, struggling to turn to face him again. He was holding her firmly, but not harshly, although his long fingers tightened around her arms at her words.

“I know you are frightened for Lady Ashara,” he hissed in her ear, cool breath muffled by her mussed curls, “But I assure you, Robarra, she wants for nothing and is unharmed. Ser Arthur would never let-,”

“Never let you force his sister into your bed?” she demanded, finally managing enough leverage to face him again, although he would not let go of her arms. “I thought him a fine knight, once, and you a gallant prince, but now I see you for the monsters you are.”

If only King’s Landing and the court would see the same. The smallfolk adored Rhaegar, and the court, still terrorized by the recent memories of the Aerys’ atrocities, raised no objection to the idea of their new king having not one wife but two. The septons’ meek objections had been easily silenced with gifts and titles.

“My father-,” Rhaegar seemed genuinely perturbed now, and she welcomed in it. “I will be nothing like Aerys, Robarra. Once I make peace with these rebels-,”

“There will be no peace, Rhaegar!” she shouted him down. “Are you as mad as your sire? You stole Tywin Lannister’s heir’s bride! Rickard Stark is dead, Elbert Arryn is dead, my FATHER is dead- do you think these houses will simply return to their keeps now that you are king? The Lannisters won’t rest until you are all dead!”

Until we are all dead, she thought bitterly. Her survival, if the rebels took the city, was dependent on the Baratheon forces reaching her before anyone else. She doubted there would be much mercy in store for Rhaegar’s wife and children. 

His expression softened somewhat. “I know you must fear for our children-,”

“MY children,” Robarra cut him off savagely, “They have no father. They are more Baratheon than Targaryen, and they are mine alone. Not yours. You will not touch them, you will not even look upon them-,”

He laughed humorlessly. “I will certainly look upon my heir and his future queens-,”

For once Robarra was completely silent. She looked at him, feeling horror start to creep across her skin like scales, setting every hair on edge. “Aegon-,”

“The dragon must have three heads, Robarra,” Rhaegar continued dismissively, as if she were an unruly student. He let go of her arms, since she looked to be in no state to attack him again, shocked as she was. “I knew it would be difficult for you to understand, but this is the way things must be. I did not want to have to separate Ashara from her betrothed, but I had no choice. She will bear Rhaenys in a matter of months-,”

“Aegon will not marry his own- You truly are mad,” she spat in disgust, taking a step back. “The realms will not- after Aerys, do you truly think they will accept another king married to his own blood-,”

“This is not for the realms to decide,” he replied fervently, and now she saw his madness laid out before her like a tapestry, shimming and beautiful where his father’s had been a ragged mangle of skin and bone. “My son will have a song- the song of ice and fire-,”

“No,” Robarra said, more quietly than she had intended, and then, louder. “No, Rhaegar. You will not do this. I will not let you do this to my children, to- to Ashara’s babe-,”

“It is not for you to decide either,” he said coldly. “Robarra, I will always respect you as my queen, but I am the one who sits the throne, not you, and this is no time for your childish fits of temper and stubborn pride-,”

Robarra was so blinded by rage that she could barely see him to hit him again. “You are a foul worm,” she whispered, but she knew he heard it all the same, “And a coward. You could have been so much more than this, you could have ended your father’s reign like a man, instead of plotting from the shadows with Connington-,” she laughed, shaking her head. 

“You are a farce, Rhaegar. You are no Aegon the Conqueror. You are not even Maegor the Cruel. You are just another Aegon the Unworthy,” she sneered, “And that is all anyone will remember you as. A coward who wormed his way into power and brought down a dynasty, because all he could do was dream.”

She wished he would have struck her. Barra knew he must have wanted to; he had tensed in the way men did when they were on the verge of doing something unforgivable, but then again, Rhaegar had already done that when he betrayed her and carried off Ashara Dayne into the night. Instead he simply stared at her with sheer hate all over his handsome face, and Robarra matched his burning gaze.

“You will attend my coronation,” he finally said, voice low. “And then you and my mother and the children will go to Dragonstone, where you will be safe. For the rest of your time at court, you will not leave this room.”

“You may threaten all you like, husband,” she said viciously. “But if you intend for me to watch you be crowned, it will have to be in chains.”

Barra knew of no tower that could withstand a storm like the one inside of her.

Rhaella was sent to her, to provide her ‘company’. Robarra refused to speak at all, only to Visenya and Aegon. Visenya was fretful and frightened of the strange man who’d come to look in on her and her brother in the nursery- “He looks like Vissy, but bigger,” she’d wailed, and Aegon slept peacefully in his cradle. The sounds of a harp being played could be heard faintly, from the floor below them. 

“My great-uncle Aemon used to write to Rhaegar, when he was a boy,” Rhaella said so softly that the harp and the fire in the hearth almost drowned her voice out. 

Visery was crouched on the ground nearby, trying to get Visenya to help him line up his wooden toy knights and horses.

Robarra did not look away from the fire.

“Aemon believed Rhaegar was the prince was that promised,” Rhaella continued. “I confess I am not as familiar with that legend as I should be. As we all should be.” She hesitated. “But Rhaegar is a prince no longer. And it may be that Aegon-,”

“The only thing,” Robarra said through gritted teeth, “That my son is promised, is the Iron Throne.”


	11. The Lion's Lady

Elia’s first and only daughter was seven weeks old when the siege of King’s Landing began. Elia wanted nothing more than to be with her husband and stepson, for Tywin had reluctantly permitted Jaime to join in with the assault. But she was abed for a little over four months after Loreyne’s tumultuous birth. She insisted on being pushed in a wheeled chair like the one her father had used in his last decade of life, so she could still participate in the running of the household.

“You should be abed,” Dorna insisted fretfully, and not for the first time, as Elia held court in the Lord’s Hall, the place usually reserved for her husband to hear the complaints and concerns of the minor lords and smallfolk. As most of the Lannister bannermen were off besieging King’s Landing, the grievances of the nobility were somewhat less frequent, and it was mostly disputes over land and animals between crofters being brought to her attention.

“I should be at my lord husband’s side, but since the maester will not permit me to walk more than a few paces, nevermind ride, here will have to do,” Elia countered sharply, before schooling her expression into a more neutral one as the next man stepped forward before her seat. Loreyne was nearby, sleeping in Genna’s arms, as the imposing woman listened in on the proceedings. The newest Lannister was small for her age, but a pretty, dainty little thing. Elia hoped her eyes would remain their dark shade of green, for aside from being slightly fairer in skin and hair than her mother, her features were all Martell. 

She had just finished settling a dispute over rations in Lannisport when a messenger, a minor Lannister cousin, burst in with news of a raven from the Crownlands. Elia tried to will away the faint, heady feeling as she ordered the hall emptied and it was pressed into her hands. The sun was setting outside, in the hot summer evening, bathing the hall in a pale golden light, Elia hurriedly undid the seal, and immediately recognized the writing as Kevan’s. Dorna gasped softly in relief; who knew how long it had taken the raven to travel, but Kevan had been alive and well enough to write recently, they knew that much.

By the end of the letter Elia’s faint feeling had turned to stones, weighing down her stomach. The city had been taken, if lain waste to by the chaos of the invading armies. A good portion of the Red Keep had been destroyed by hidden caches of wildfire, set off as the rebel forces flooded into the castle. Rhaegar was dead, that was certain, and Tywin was grievously injured by the explosion. Jaime was well, but Queen Dowager Rhaella, Princess turned Queen Robarra, and Ashara Dayne were all missing, as well as the children. Stannis Baratheon currently held the throne.

The hall was utterly silent, aside from the metallic shifting of the uneasy guards nearby, clad in golden Lannister armor. Elia took a moment to steady herself, and then smoothed the skirt of her red velvet gown, before slowly rising, the ruby and gold necklace that had been Tywin’s first gift to her, so long ago, settling against her chest. “I will leave for King’s Landing by the end of this week.”

“You can’t possibly think to travel in your condition, my lady-,” young Maester Creylen began to protest, but stilled at the look on Lewyn Martell’s face.

The man, well into his fifties but still young enough to fight as well as any Westerman, gave his niece an appraising look. “We could make it in three weeks, with a small party riding hard for the capitol, if we keep north towards the Riverlands.”

She nodded slowly. 

“At the first sign of any trouble, you’ll go straight back to the Rock,” he added firmly.

“I’m not a child to be ordered home,” Elia snapped, but turned to Genna and Dorna. “You two should stay here.”

“And I am not a child either, goodsister,” Genna said dryly.

“I’ll stay,” Dorna said swiftly. “If you would be so kind as to take a letter to Kevan to me, if he is…” her voice trembled slightly. She was clutching her only child thus far in her arms, little tow-headed Lancel, newly one, who looked like a miniature version of his father. 

“Of course,” Elia soothed. Her legs felt numb and weak, but she forced herself to walk haltingly down the steps from the high table to the floor all the same, gripping her uncle’s muscled arm tightly. “This should be a happy occasion. The Targaryen threat is ended, and we hold the capitol. The Tyrells are already tendering their surrender.”

But she felt no rush of relief, or joy. The greater danger had been weakened, but her husband was gravely wounded and her dear friend was still missing. And the journey would be both treacherous and difficult for her, given how much of a toll the pregnancy and Loreyne’s birth had taken on her. But she could not sit on top of the Rock while her husband and stepson suffered. She could walk slowly with a cane, and would have to ride side-saddle.

Lewyn had her practice first on a pony in the days leading up their departure. They were taking a dozen of his best men, as any more would simply slow the party down. Elia doubted a Lannister party would be attacked so long as they stayed clear of the Reach, but it would be dangerous. If only she had recovered quicker from Loreyne’s birth, she could have left that very night, but…

“He may be dead,” Lewyn said as kindly as one could say such a thing. Her uncle looked a great deal like her mother had, and he had been a comfort to Elia in the wake of her parents’ passing. She had not been able to see either of her brothers in so long. “It may be too late.”

“I know,” she said tersely, willing herself not to dwell on it; she was Elia Martell Lannister, and she could not break down into tears now- what would Tywin think of her? “Nevertheless, I must go, Uncle. I am needed there. Jaime will need me. And Ashara-,” she cut herself off with a sigh. “I…,”

“What Rhaegar Targaryen did to that girl was no fault of yours,” Lewyn raised an eyebrow. “The bastard’s dead now, at least.”

“It was because of me she was there-,”

“Ashara Dayne would never have been content to sit at Starfall and sew in front of the fire for the rest of her life,” Lewyn argued. “She was made for court life, and the court loved her, here and in King’s Landing. The Targaryen took notice, and the rest… well, the rest will be history now.” It was his turn to sigh. Now for the first time she registered the grey in his dark hair, the lines on his face.

Elia changed the subject, even as she pushed the pony to a trot around the courtyard. “Petra will miss you.” 

Petra had been her uncle’s paramour for the past three years. Elia was aware that he’d had women before, but Petra, who ran a shop in Lannisport, and who had fine strawberry blonde hair that turned to honey under the sun, was the latest, and the two still seemed besotted with one another. Marriage would likely never be possible, as he was still a Martell lord, and she one of the smallfolk, albeit one who could read and write and knew simple sums. 

“She will,” he agreed with a slight smile. “But I promised to come back in one piece.”

“You will,” Elia swore.

Before she left she spoke with Tyrion. The boy was ten now, and old enough to be informed of what was going on. And he was clever enough to find out himself, even if Elia attempted to keep him in the dark. She went to him just before his bedtime (not that he ever abided by it, despite the best attempts of his septa) with Loreyne, whom he adored, seemingly thrilled to be an older brother at last.

“Mother?” he put down the book he’d been reading, some history of the Westerlands, no doubt, when she entered slowly, infant cradled in her arms. 

Elia did not have the heart to correct him at the moment, and besides, his father…

Tyrion beamed happily. He was an ugly child, there was no denying it, given his stunted growth and odd features, but his mismatched eyes had always been endearing to Elia. She sat down on the bed, and he curled up next to her, stroking Loreyne’s downy dark locks of hair. “Has Lora rolled over yet, Mother? Maester says this is when babes start to. And she already talks to herself,” he snickered. Even now the little girl was cooing to herself in her sleep.

“I hope she will grow to be just as quick with her words as you,” Elia smiled softly, ruffling his white-blonde hair. “But I didn’t come in here to discuss Lora with you, Tyrion. I-,”

He stilled. “Is Father dead?” Then, even quieter; “Is Jaime? Or Uncle Kevan? Is that why everyone has been so quiet lately?”

“No,” Elia said immediately. “No, Jaime is alright, and your uncle as well, but your father- he’s been badly hurt, Tyrion, and I… I cannot lie to you, he may not come home again.”

Tyrion looked away from her, shoulders trembling, and she remembered that he was just a little boy, eloquent and sly as he might be at times, and she rested Loreyne in her lap in order to wrap both arms around him. “It’s alright to cry, sweetling.”

“Father hates me,” he said thickly. “He’s going to die, and he hates me-,”

“Listen to me,” Elia said in his ear urgently. “Your father’s feelings are his own, but that doesn’t make them right. Tyrion, you are loved, no matter what he’s said or done.” 

She held the boy for a long time, until finally she bid him goodnight and left with her daughter, promising herself that she would see him again, and sooner rather than later.

King’s Landing still reeked of smoke and death when they arrived at the gates. The stiff wind cutting through the dry grass did little to clear the air, and Elia shielded her nose and mouth with part of her shawl as their party, displaying the Lannister lion and the Martell sun and spear, entered the city. 

It was clear smallfolk had just begun returning to their ruined homes and destroyed shops, but the dead still lined the sides of streets, and the stench from the Blackwater alone… The children were what frightened Elia. They wandered around as if in a daze or a dream, eyes glassy, covered in dirt, and in some cases, weeping burns. King’s Landing had never been so silent, aside from the faint yells of the meager crews of men attempting to start repairs, and the occasional barking of dogs.

It was a little easier to breathe as they ascended the hill towards the Red Keep, but not much. The castle itself was blackened in some places; two towers had crumbled completely and one outer wall was destroyed. After a brief argument with one of the haggard guards at the gate, Elia put on her best Lady Lannister voice, and they were allowed to enter. 

There was no question of seeing Tywin before the acting king, and so Elia found herself in not the throne room, which had been almost entirely destroyed, but a quiet solar. Stannis Baratheon, although only nineteen, looked far older than she remembered, hairline already beginning to recede and a neat beard on his chin. His wife, Jeyne, was absent; Elia learned to her surprise that the former Swann lady was due to have her first babe any day now. 

“My sister, the former queen, and Lady Ashara are on Dragonstone,” he informed Elia bluntly. “They should arrive in a matter of weeks. The garrison there has already surrendered.” He frowned deeply. “I gave my word the children would come to no harm.”

“Aegon-,”

“Is king now, yes at the ripe age of two,” he cut her off brusquely. “I intend to serve as one of his regents. My sister will insist on being the other, of course, but Robarra… will need someone to balance her… impulses.”

“She’s been greatly wronged by the Targaryens,” Elia noted. “Her husband most of all.”

“We all have. Brandon Stark and Jon Arryn died in the blast. Elbert Arryn as well.”

Elia arched an eyebrow. “Does Ned Stark live?”

“Thankfully,” Stannis muttered. “House Stark has lost enough lords as it is. He’ll marry Brandon’s widow. Denys Arryn will take over the rule of the Eyrie and marry Elbert’s widow. His own wife died in childbirth some months ago.”

She nodded slowly, mind racing. “My lord husband…,”

Stannis escorted her to Tywin’s bedside himself, then left to see to his wife. For all the man’s cold nature, he seemed utterly devoted to the woman. It reminded Elia enough of her own marriage that she was truly fighting back tears as she sat beside Tywin. He was badly burned, and it was obvious some of the burns were infected. The attending maester told her that at this point, milk of poppy seemed to be the best option, and Elia agreed.

“Can you hear me, my love?” she whispered to the unconscious man struggling to breathe with each breath, who had once been the Lion of Lannister that had inspired so much fear and awe. “We fought our battles, do you remember? And we did both triumph. I’m just sorry it had to be like this. I thought…,” She had thought they’d have more time. Time to grow old, for him to see Loreyne grow into a little girl and then a woman.

“I’ve tried,” she murmured to him. “I have. I’m sorry, love.”

Someone had entered the dimly lit room behind her, and she turned to see Jaime. 

“Would you like to-,” But he just shook his head, and only approached the bedside when Tywin’s breathing had stopped completely.

“I hated him, at times,” he told her, sounding mildly shocked that he was even saying it aloud.

“He was a difficult man to love, at times,” Elia whispered, wiping at her eyes.

“He did love you, though. Not in the same way he loved my mother, but just as much.”

Then it was her stepson’s turn to comfort her and she broke and started to sob, burying her head against his shoulder. Jaime’s remaining hand slowly stroked her hair. “Is Cersei-,” he started to ask.

Elia shook her head. “This was no place for her. I told her as much, that she was needed to help Dorna manage the Rock. She threw several things at me.”

He chuckled humorlessly. “That sounds like Cersei.”

Outside, a humid summer rain had begun to fall. Elia extricated herself from Jaime’s embrace, and squeezed her husband’s limp hand one last time, before calling for the maester. She would have to stay on here at court for at least the next several months, but at the first signs of autumn, she was determined to return home.


	12. The Wolf's Queen

Dragonstone was as grim and dreary as Robarra remembered it as being in the early days of her marriage, not that they had spent long there. Aerys had insisted she and Rhaegar remain at court after Visenya’s birth, and then had come Aegon… and now this.

Spring storms raged outside the lonely island keep, and Barra raged inside it. Ashara Dayne was still a beautiful young woman, even in the last moon of her pregnancy, but the once vivacious spark to her violet eyes had dimmed. Rhaegar was correct; Barra saw no evidence that the Dornishwoman had even been mistreated; if anything, she was doted on by the loyal servants and the Kingsguard, especially her brother, who fussed over her like an old woman.

But something terrible had happened to Ashara, that was clear. There was little difference in age between the two women; Ashara was twenty to Robarra’s nineteen. They had been good friends during their time at court, although Barra could confess that the Dornishwoman’s dry wit occasionally flew over her head and she did not quite understand her taste in men.

Now they were bound by a different sort of link; both wronged by Rhaegar, both mothers of his children. “I hope you bear him a son,” Barra said bitterly, throwing herself into a chair in front of the smoldering fire. “If he’s even alive to see him.”

She could only speak so blithely because Rhaella was sick in bed, but she was not about to let a mother’s love stop her from speaking the truth. Rhaegar was a coward, a fool, and much worse after what he’d done to Ashara, no matter how noble he thought his intentions, no matter ‘the greater good’. She had not wanted him, and he’d forced her anyways, all in the hopes of fulfilling a bloody prophecy.

Was prophecy going to stop six great houses from crashing through the gates of King’s Landing? Barra doubted it, and supposed she ought to be grateful he’d at least had the sense to send them away, even if Dragonstone was a far smaller and more dismal prison than the Red Keep. At least she was not confined to one room here, and at least the children were safe. She wanted them as far away from Rhaegar’s madness as possible.

Visenya and Aegon played innocently during the days, oblivious to the war raging over the throne their father sat, but during the nights they shared the same bed as their mother, wracked by nightmares. Robarra was almost frightened to ask Visenya what caused her to shriek and wail so at night, because she had queer dreams herself. 

She dreamed of Rhaegar on the throne feeding her children to a great dragon, so large it filled the entire throne room, while she watched and screamed, helpless to stop him. She dreamed she was a doe racing through the trees while the forest burned around her, and wolves howled in the distance. She dreamed Dragonstone sank into the sea, gargoyles and all, and under the water floated the dead; Rhaegar’s siblings, Aerys, her father…

Robarra often woke up blinking away hot tears, and could only calm herself by looking down at her children, nestled at her sides.

Ashara was silent, as she often was, hands splayed over her belly. “I thought it was some jape,” she said after a moment. “When he came to me at the tourney, that night. I thought he was jesting. Then I saw the men and I knew. I screamed at Arthur, to help me, to not let him do this. I called for Jaime. I told Rhaegar he couldn’t take me, that I was betrothed to another, that he was married, that it was madness. I told him I didn’t want any part of his prophecy. But he was…,” she shook her head. “He heard none of it. I could see it in his eyes. He was convinced. No one could have swayed him.”

“And Arthur allowed it to come to pass,” Robarra muttered in disgust. She couldn’t imagine the betrayal she’d feel if Stannis ever turned against her like that. Yes, at times he likely wanted to throttle her and she him, but they were siblings before anything else.

“I have not spoken to Arthur in months,” Ashara admitted. “But he feels he had no choice, that if he had tried to stop it they would have simply taken me anyways and he would not have been there to protect me.”

Yes, Barra thought, protect you from outside the room, sword sheathed while my husband held you down and planted his seed in you, night after night.

There was nothing she could say to comfort Ashara, and Robarra had never been one to offer comfort anyways. She was one to offer action, but the title of queen had been cruelly dangled in front of her for nearly a decade. For nearly a decade she had tasted the merest hint of power, only to see it yanked away. She could not share in Ashara’s pain or dwell on her own. She wanted the war to consume everything, everyone that had hurt her. She wanted to be free of black and crimson and Targaryens and their madness and their bloody dreams of dragons. 

She wanted her children to be able to play within the halls of Storm’s End, not cower from storms in a lonely tower spire.

The month passed quickly enough, although from the way Rhaella was vomiting and pale, dark circles under her violet eyes, Barra began to suspect that Ashara was not the only woman bearing a Targaryen heir.

The news of the sack of King’s Landing came four days after Ashara had gone into labor. The labor itself had been difficult, starting in the black of night and continuing on until just after dawn had broken over the horizon, a rare peaceful day. Barra sat by her former lady in waiting’s side, holding Ashara’s limp hand in her own until finally the maid attending them, as there was no maester available, gasped in relief and held up a silent, bloody little form with matted dark hair.

The babe did not breathe for a few moments, and for those few moments Robarra wondered if the child was dead, if all of Rhaegar’s madness had been for naught in the end, until it gave a squalling cry. “A boy,” the maid said, sounding surprised herself, and Barra stiffened in shock. Even she had, after all her disbelief in prophecy, assumed the child would be a bastard daughter.

No Rhaenys Waters, then.

Ashara had lost a great deal of blood during the birth and drifted in and out of consciousness for the next several days. Barra spent the majority of her time keeping Arthur Dayne away from his sister and nephew, despite his pleas to see the boy. He could have easily forced his way in, of course, but it was clear that any pride in his once noble bearing had long since worn away in the face of grief and regret. The man was so handsome and so painstakingly sorrowful that it was difficult to not waver before him, but whatever respect Barra had had for him had dissipated like morning mist in the face of his cowardice before Rhaegar.

Then the news of the sack. Parts of the city would have to be rebuilt. That much was clear. Rhaegar was dead by his own hand, either inadvertently or purposefully. Fire, and something about waking the dragons. The throne room was said to be scorched. Stannis held the throne for now.

The most surprising death of all, really, Barra thought, was Tywin Lannister. How heavy the lion fell. But perhaps it was for the best. Their house would be crippled after the death of such a ruthless leader. It was doubtful the Lannisters would have been content to be relegated to Hand of the King once more.

While she crowned Aegon’s curly, silver-streaked head with Aerys’ old crown, Arthur Dayne plummeted into the sea, still in his fine white armor. 

A fortnight later, once Ashara had recovered enough to be moved, they set sail down the Blackwater, towards the city. The air itself was ashen, but Robarra remained on the deck of the ship, the toddler king in her arms, while Visenya asked after ‘brother Jon’ in the cabin. To Barra’s relief, the boy looked far more Dayne than Targaryen, with his mother’s fine dark hair, and eyes a violet so dark they were nearly black. He did, however, have Rhaegar’s solemn face.

Her mother was in tears at their reunion, her brother as stone-faced as usual, but having embraced her slowly all the same. There was no coronation for Aegon, a mere toddler, but there was a formal declaration of regents: Stannis and herself. 

Jaime and Ashara wed quietly. Barra had no idea what they planned to do with the boy. She was shocked a son of Tywin Lannister was still willing to wed his ‘defiled’ betrothed, but then again, she supposed there had never been much similarity between the son and the father. Perhaps Elia Martell Lannister had had more of an impact on Tywin’s children than anyone would have supposed. She knew that Cersei Lannister was to marry either a Redwyne or a Hightower, as part of the peace with the Reach. She could not imagine the girl was happy about that, but it was clear Viserys Targaryen would never be allowed to wed a Lannister, or any daughter of a great house. He would go to Storm’s End with his mother, and eventually, perhaps Oldtown.

The last person Robarra expected to see in the weeks following the official end of the rebellion was Ned Stark. He looked older than his twenty or so years, but then again, so did she. The war had wreaked havoc on them both, and their families as well. She had a dead father and dead husband, and he a dead father and dead brother, and the title of Warden waiting for him in the North. And a Tully woman to marry, his brother’s bride, who was said to have just borne a daughter.

“You were right,” she told him, as he stood almost uneasily on the balcony beside her overlooking the ravaged city. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“The kiss?” he sounded tired. She felt tired as well. Like she could lie down and sleep and never awaken. But she had to. Aegon needed her. Visenya needed her. She was a Baratheon of Storm’s End, and she would not be quelled so suddenly.

“But I never regretted it,” Barra told him with a weary smile. “Still, you were right to laugh at me. They were the dreams of a child, and I have not been a child for some time.”

He stepped a bit closer. “Nor I, Your Grace.”

His kiss caught her by surprise. It was achingly sweet, like a fond memory or summer wine. Then he drew back, and she reluctantly unknotted her fingers from his hair. It had grown down to his shoulders, during the war, but he was clean-shaven. 

“I will be true to my lady wife,” he told her.

“As I was true to my lord husband,” she said bitterly, but as much as she hated it, she understood. She paused. “I would still… like to see Winterfell some day.”

“Well, the royal court will always be welcome there, Your Grace,” he smiled slightly, but his grey eyes were still so sad.

“I loved you,” she said, to his back as he turned to go. He stood there for a painfully long while. “I always have.”

His answer was written clearly across his long Stark face when he turned.


End file.
